GIFT  OF 

CU  M 


CLIY  GREENE 


SAN  FRANCISCO.  Sept.  5.— Clay 
M.  Green,  the  first  American  child 
born  in  San  Francisco  and  one  of 
the  city's  most  distinguished  con 
tributions  to  the  dramatic  arts,  died 
at  his  home,  113-5  Green  Street,  to 
day  at  the  age  of  83. 

Greene,  who  had  been  ill  for  sev 
eral  months  following  a  fall  in 
which  he  sustained  a  fractured  hip, 
made  his  last  public  appearance  at 
the  sixth  annual  presentation  of 
"The  Passion  Play  of  Santa  Clara" 
in  April. 

A  graduate  of  the  class  of  '69,  he 
had  written  the  play  when  he  was 
at  the  peak  of  his  form  as  a  dra 
matist.  It  was  first  presented  in 
1901  and  has  become  a  traditional 
California  production. 

Greene's  distinctions  in  the  thea 
ter  were  many  and  varied  and 
reached  from  San  Francisco  to  Lon 
don.  He  was  the  first  Shepherd  of 
the  Lamb's  Club  in  New  York,  the 
oldest  member  of  the  Bohemian 
Club  in  San  Francisco,  and  an  hon 
orary  member  of  many  other  or 
ganizations. 

He  was  still  in  his  teens  when 
he  wrote  his  first  play,  "Struck  Oil" 
in  which  Maggie  Moore  and  J.  C. 
Williamson  acted  all  over  America. 
Miss  Moore  was  a  native  San  Fran 
ciscan  and  the  tour  took  her  to  Aus 
tralia  where  Williamson  remained 
to  establish  a  theater  chain  and  be 
come  the  most  important  figure  in 
Australian  show  business. 

The  list  of  great  successes  in 
Greene's  output  of  some  seventy- 
five  plays  inolttdfcs  "M'liss,"  a  dram 
atization  of  the  Bret  Harte  story 
which  was  made  for  the  uses  of 
Annie  Pixley;  "Chispa,"  which  was 
written  for  Marion  Elmore;  "Sharps 
and  Flats"  for  Robson  and  Crane, 
and  "Wang"  in  which  De  Wolf  Hop 
per  had  his  success.  * 

It  was  on  a  story  of  Greene's  that 
David  Belasco  built  "The  Girl  of 
the  Golden  West"  in  which  Blanche 
Bates  triumphed.  In  his  lifetime  he 
was  an  active  participant  in  the 
theater  and  age  did  not  dull  his  in- 
|  terest.  As  a  dramatist,  actor,  poet, 
critic  and  bon  vivant  Greene  was 
a  vivid  personality  and  a  prodigious 
worker. 

Funeral  services  have  not  been 
announced. 


Clay  M.  Greene,  83,  Dies; 
Famous  in  City's  History 


Voted    Playwright    One 
of  First  White  Babes 
in  San  Francisco  Be 
fore  U.  S.  Flag 

Clay  Meredith  Greene,  83,  grand 
old  man  of  the  American  theater, 
one  of  the  first  American  children 
born  in  San  Francisco  and  oldest 
living  member  of  the  Bohemian 
Hub,  died  at  his  home,  1035  Pine 
street,  yesterday,  following  a  pro 
longed  illness. 

Actor,  playwright  and  critic,  au 
thor  of  the  Santa  Clara  Passion 
Play  and  75  other  stage  works, 
Greene  had  been  bedridden  since 
early  last  May,  when  he  broke  a 
hip  in  a  fall,  his  injury  barring  the 
possibility  of  ever  regaining  the  use 
of  his  legs. 

With  him  at  his  bedside  when  he 
passed  away  were  his  wife,  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Marion  Bryant,  and 
his  two  grandchildren,  Barbara,  11, 
and  Frederick  William  Bryant,  14. 
BORN  HERE  IN  1850 

Mr.  Greene,  who  held  the  distinc 
tion  of  being  elected  shepherd  of 
the  Lambs,  New  York's  famous 
actor  group,  on  11  different  occa 
sions,  was  born  here  March  12,  1850, 
six  months  before  California  was 
admitted  to  the  Union.  His  father 
was  Colonel  William  Greene,  presi 
dent  of  the  city's  first  Board  of 
Aldermen. 


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ERSES  OF 

^   l       LOVE 

SENTIMENT 
AND'  FRIENDSHIP 


BY 


CLAY  M.GREENE 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921 
By  CLAY  M.  GREENE 

SAN   FRANCISCO 


TO   ADOLPH    B.  SPRECKELS 

IN  GRATEFUL  APPRECIATION  OF 
THE  FRIENDLY  ENCOURAGEMENT 
THAT  INSPIRED  THE  MAKING  OF 
t®  J®  e£>  THIS  BOOK  t£>  *£>  e£> 


461989 


Clay  M.Greene,  81, 
Fetes  Birthday 

-    (.-Hrr:  :....,' 

Still  young  in  spirit  and  active  in 
literary  work,  Clay  M.  Greene,  play 
wright  and  critic,  yesterday  cele 
brated  his  eighty-first  birthday  and 
twentieth  wedding  anniversary  at 
his  home,  1135  Green  street. 

The  author  was  congratulated 
and  his  work  extolled  by  a  host  of 
friends  who  gathered  at  the  Greene 
home  last  night  at  an  impromptu 
party.  Chief  speakers  were  James 
Swinnerton,  president  of  the  Bo 
hemian  Club,  and  Edward  F.  O'Day, 
writer. 

Greene  was  born  March  12,  1850. 
He  has  been  a  member  of  the  Bo 
hemian  Club  for  fifty-five  years 
and  is  the  author  of  half  a  hun 
dred  plays. 


FOREWORD 

This  collection  of  varied  reminiscences  along 

the  devious  pathways  of  a  checkered 

career  is  published  merely  because 

my  friends  'wished  it  and 

my  vanity  yielded 


^J^f 


V^^o 

-**eS£ks~*~*-S'    . 

~~3^~U*i^>c>*. 


o*s\4uZ*'~. 
c^c. 


CONTENTS 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS      . 

A  BIRTHDAY  SONNET   . 

A  FANTASY          .... 

A  MEMORY 

A  PARAPHRASE 

A  PROTEST          .... 

A  RETROSPECT 

A  REVERIE  OF  BOHEMIA     . 

A  SENTIMENT   .... 

A  VISION      ..... 

ABSENCE A  FRAGMENT   . 

AD  FINEM 

ADELE  

AH,  PRETTY  JANE! 

ALIBI 

AN  ACROSTIC   .... 

AN  ADVENTURE 

AN  ANSWER     .... 

AN  AWAKENING    . 

ANTICIPATION 

AT  A  BACHELOR'S  DINNER 

CIRCE 

COME,  BE  THOU  MINE!     . 
COMPENSATION      .      .      . 
CONDOLENCE  .... 
CONFIDENCE    .... 
DISSATISFACTION  . 
ENCHAINED     .... 
FANCY'S  PROMISE 
FAREWELL  TO  A  FRIEND  . 


Page 
69 

73 

72 

40 


62 


FRIENDSHIP 

FORGIVENESS    ... 

FULFILLMENT 

GOODBYE,  JOE  COYNE!        .        .        .        .        . 

GRATITUDE 

HER        ....        .....        . 

IF  EVERYONE 

IN  A  GIRL'S  ALBUM 

IN  SYMPATHY 

INVITATION     ... 

JEALOUSY  . 

LOVE'S  ANGLING  .     .     .     .     .      .     . 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  JO.  WHEELER 
QUATRAIN        .      .      .      .      .      .      .      . 

SECRET  LOVE  .      . 

SEPARATION 

SENT  WITH  A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE  .   .   . 

SHE         .........        . 

SINTA  MAZA       .....        ... 

SOMETIMES         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        . 

SOME  DAY  ......        .        .. 

SUZANNE     .......        .. 

SYLVIA          ... 

THE  ACTOR         .        .        .        .        .        .        .        . 

THE  BACKBITERS 

THE  BLOT 

THE  BRIDAL 

THE  BUBBLE 

THE  COMING  OF  VIRGINIA 

THE  CONVERT 


Page 
3 
6 

38 

84 

4 

4! 

33 

49 

80 

103 

6l 

95 

82 

34 
12 

53 
55 
68 
14 
13 
42 

105 
21 
89 

IO6 
17 

IOy 


THE  DREAM 

THE  FOUNT  OF  YOUTH 

THE  GIRLS,  THE  OTHER  GIRL  AND  THE  BOY  . 

THE  GROUND-BREAKING 7 

THE  HONOR  ROLL 5 

THE  REVELATION 24 

THE  SEASONS 86 

THE  SIGH  OF  THE  SURF 22 

THE  SILVER  WEDDING 76 

THE  SOUTHERN  SENTINEL IOO 

THE  TRIFLER II 

THE  TRYST-BOWER 75 

TIME  AND  TIDE  MUST  WAIT 3$ 

TO  A  FLIRT    ' 34 

TO  A  LADY  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 48 

TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL 58 

TO  ALEXANDRA  CARLISLE 46 

TO  A  YACHT 43 

TO  FRANK  UNGER 28 

TO  GEORGE  T.  BROMLEY .44 

TO  HENRY  WATERSON 8 1 

TO  I.  S.  H ...  92 

TO  VICTOR  HERBERT    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        -JO 

TOMMY  QUINN IOI 

UNSATISFIED 59 

WE  TWO 65 

WHAT  SHALL  IT  BE? 87 


? )  /ff9t  \Aasr , 


! 


(Lenient  in 


AM  come  from  the  Spirit  of  Sweet  Content 

In  search  of  that  Golden  Fleece 

That's  shorn  for  the  shoulders  of  Sentiment 

In  the  region  of  perfect  peace. 

I  know  there  are  men  who  are  deaf  to  aught 

But  the  sordid  demand  of  pelf; 

I  know  there  are  those  who  are  ever  taught 

That  there's  nothing  worth  while  but  self. 

I  know  there  are  thousands  who've  played  and  lost, 

Despising  the  hosts  who've  won, 

And  millions  dream  not  as  the  bridges  they've  crossed, 

Of  the  risks  that  the  builders  have  run. 

Now  I  hold  and  believe 

That  the  good  we  receive, 
The  success  of  brave  effort  reflects, 

While  the  failures  that  sting, 

And  the  fortunes  awing 
Are  the  fruits  of  unwitting  neglects  — 
So  why  curse  the  wealth  of  the  wiser  than  we, 
When,  alike  for  us  all,  Nature's  treasures  are  free. 

II 

I  wandered  last  night  through  the  fragrant  shades 

Of  Bohemia's  forest  domain, 

And  I  searched  through  the  mist  of  the  shadowy  glades 

For  a  thought  that  was  evil  in  vain. 

There  was  never  a  sob  in  the  sighing  winds 

That  swept  through  the  mighty  trees 

To  summon  the  tear  that  the  vision  blinds 

When  we  call  back  old  memories. 

And  then,  spirit  wraiths  from  the  bygone  days 

Led  my  way  through  the  friendly  shades, 

And  spoke  but  of  the  gladness  that  comes  of  praise 

In  the  kinship  that  never  fades. 

And  the  tears  we  have  shed 

For  our  friends  that  are  dead, 
Were  forgot  in  that  King  of  Nights, 

As  we  wandered  along 

Full  of  old  time  song, 
And  old  jestings  in  whispering  flights. 
And  those  voices  of  wraiths  were  as  true  in  tone 
As  the  thrill  of  a  soul  when  its  sighings  have  flown. 


VERSES  OF  LOVE,  SENTIMENT 
AND  FRIENDSHIP 


FRIENDSHIP 

THERE  is  a  chord  that  beats  in  every  soul 
With  endless  melody.  Its  music  thrills 
The  heart  of  ice;  its  rhythms  can  control 
With  graceful  cadences  life's  sorest  ills. 
No  pen  that  man  has  made  can  half  extol 
Its  priceless  worth.  The  waves  of  Fate  may  roll 
With  reckless  fierceness  on  the  Sands  of  Time, 
Wrecking  men's  lives  on  Disappointment's  Shoal, 
Yet,  still  this  chord  will  twang  its  song  sublime. 
'Tis  endless  as  Eternity,  it  cannot  die; 
For,  when  the  spark  of  life  has  died  away, 
'Twill  sing  in  Spiritland  its  sweet  refrain. 
This  song  is  Friendship,  boy,  and  you  and  I 
Must  place  our  souls  beneath  its  mighty  sway, 
That  it  may  sigh  concordance  'twixt  us  twain. 


F 


CONFIDENCE 

AR  better  to  battle  the  blows  of  Fate 
Than  embark  on  Despair's  dark  stream; 


For  there's  never  relief  that  can  come  too  late 
Whilst  the  promise  of  Faith  may  gleam. 

There  is  never  a  right  but  is  braver  than  wrong, 
Nor  a  sorrow  whose  sting  can  endure  so  long 

That  the  feeblest  and  frailest  may  not  grow  strong 
If  he  trust  in  Illusion's  dream. 


OME,  Retrospection,  till  I  lift  the  veil 
That  shields  a  checkered  life, 
And  woo  my  memory  to  many  a  tale 
With  song  and  revel  rife. 

Thro'  disappointment,  anguish  and  despair, 

And  loves  grown  stale  and  cold, 
There  shine  fair  visions  far  past  all  compare 

In  Lambdom's  merry  fold. 

I  wandered  and  ye  opened  wide  the  gates 

To  give  me  rest  within, 
Where  Manhood  scorned  the  malice  of  the  Fates 

Nor  frowned  on  worldly  sin. 

I  prospered  and  ye  placed  within  my  hand 

The  scroll  of  leadership; 
I  failed,  yet  still  ye  gave  me  fresh  command 

'Midst  praise  of  speech  and  quip. 

Then  sickness,  debt.  Ye  turned  not  yet  away, 

But  made  me  Friendship's  child; 
Thwarted  unrest;  Ambition,  long  astray, 

Once  more  my  hopes  beguiled. 

Now  thro'  the  cloud-rifts  gleams  my  gratitude 

For  ye  my  dream  time's  best, 
And  I  would  on  some  idle  hour  intrude, 

This  message  from  the  West. 


THE  HONOR  ROLL 

Charles  Frohman,  Charles  Klein,  Lionel  Walsh,  Ernest  Lambart,  Norman 
Tharpe,  Walter  McCutcheon,  Reginald  Barlowe,  Lewis  A.  Stone,  Earl 
Metcalfe,  William  Harrigan,  Everett  Butterfield,  Basil  Broadhurst, 
Robert  I.  Aitken,  John  Willard,  Oscar  Leiser,  John  Devereux,  Robert 
Warwick. 


M 


IDST  the  music,  and  the  glitter,  and  the 

laughter  of  today, 

Hold  in  reverence  brave  brothers  who 
shall  come  not  here  to  play. 

Who  amidst  the  deadly  carnage  of  the  seething 

battle  line, 
Pause  between  the  blinding  volleys  to  their 

memories  entwine 

• 
With  the  scenes  of  Lambs  at  Gambols  'midst  the 

plaudits  of  the  fair, 
That  can  soften  madd'ning  echoes  belched  from 

out  the  cannon's  blare. 

Some  are  gone  away  forever,  laid  away  in 

honored  graves; 
Some  are  sleeping  that  dread  silence  'neath  an 

ocean's  cruel  waves. 

Some  in  pained  and  fevered  day-dreams  find 

their  solace  'midst  the  gloom, 
In  mind  pictures  of  the  homeland,  mirrored  in  a 

barrack  room. 


[5] 


There  are  others,  who,  responding  to  the  call  of 

chivalry, 
Are  in  cheerless  tent  lines  waiting  for  a  summons 

o'er  the  sea. 

So,  for  all  of  these  a  heart-throb  and  an  orison  I 

pray, 
'Midst  the  music,  and  the  glitter,  and  the 

laughter  of  today. 


FORGIVENESS 

SAFER  the  soul  that  can  slights  outlive; 
Stouter  the  heart  that  can  wrongs  forgive; 
Happier  the  conscience  that  buries  deep 
The  recollections  that  made  it  weep. 

Evil  must  fail  in  the  battle  with  Good; 
No  sin  that  excuses  the  shedding  of  blood; 
Far  better  to  lighten  the  burdens  of  Hate 
With  mercy  that's  ever  inviolate. 

For  Vengeance  is  ever  a  sightless  thing 
That  sees  not  the  rue  in  its  cruel  sting, 
Nor  the  certain  remorse  full  of  Pity's  glow 
For  the  bleeding  one  writhing  beneath  its  blow. 


[6] 


THE  GROUND-BREAKING 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  A.  B.  Spreckels  on  the  laying  of  the 
corner  stone  of  the  California  Palace  of  Honor 

SNG  to  me,  Muse,  for  I  would  twang  my  lyre 
In  tuneful  harmony  with  roundelay, 
Anent  a  mother  fair,  and  noble  sire, 
Who  gave  to  History  and  Fame  today 
What  stirred  my  soul  to  patriotic  fire, 
And  sentiments  that  never  shall  away. 

Upon  a  height  majestic,  where  the  sea 
Murmured  upon  the  shore  its  soft  refrain, 
Gathered  a  city's  throng  that  seemed  to  be 
Full  of  soul-praises  for  this  honored  twain, 
Who  reigned  in  undisputed  majesty, 
O'er  wealth's  great  realm  of  power  not  won  in 
vain. 

For  power  too  oft  is  wielded  for  the  strong; 
Too  oft  denies  the  weak  the  strength  to  live. 
But  these  two  ever  sang  the  soothing  song 
Of  Charity,  that  liveth  but  to  give, 
And  poured  from  out  their  store  not  filled 

through  wrong, 
Nor  leavened  by  deceit's  prerogative. 

I  saw  these  two  honored  with  reverence, 

Upon  that  wondrous  height,  by  those  who  came 

To  bow  in  thanks  untinged  with  dull  pretense, 


For  that  their  gift  to  Memory's  fair  fame 
Might  live  forever,  in  proud  evidence 
That  they  revered  each  fallen  hero's  name. 

And  when  their  son  turned  that  first  spade  of 

sod, 

I  saw  their  faces  flush  with  love  and  pride, 
That  one  with  rocky  path  of  life  untrod, 
With  no  hope  unfulfilled  nor  whim  denied, 
Had  done  his  mite  for  those  who  rest  with  God, 
And  who,  in  spirit,  smiled  on  that  hillside. 

Then  when  a  mother,  through  a  soldier,  gave 
A  silken  banner  unto  her  I  knew, 
In  memory  of  a  son's  unnumbered  grave, 
I  saw  the  best  a  shattered  heart  could  do, 
To  give  to  her,  who  held  in  awe  the  brave, 
The  starry  symbol  of  fell  battle's  rue. 

A  nation's  gratitude  unto  this  pair, 

For  this  vast  monument  to  bravery! 

A  city's  love,  for  that  they  make  more  fair 

That  beauteous  height  beside  the  sighing  sea! 

And  holier,  too,  for  here  each  mourner's  prayer 

Shall  find  its  solace  in  fond  Memory. 


COMPENSATION 

WE  BOTH  are  all  wrong,"  said  my  loved 
one  to  me. 
Had  she  thought  that  if  we  had  been 


, 
There'd  be  many  a  day, 

With  two  hearts  all  astray, 
And  two  natures  despoiled  of  delight? 
Two  souls  torn  apart  that  were  made  to  be 

one; 
Two  lives  with  their  hopes  all  awry; 

Two  minds  that  have  thrilled 

With  hopes  unfulfilled, 
Two  passions  to  languish  and  die? 

How  oft  are  we  right  in  this  world, 

O  my  own, 
Save  in  giving  our  souls  what  they  crave  ? 

Why  should  hearts  that  have  sighed 

Have  their  blisses  denied, 
When  despair  can  be  laid  in  its  grave  ? 
Let  us  ever  be  wrong,  when  to  hunger  is  right; 
Let  our  secret  with  each  other  dwell; 

If  my  Heaven  must  be 

But  to  steal  you  from  me, 
Let  me  live  in  our  bliss-builded  hell. 


Mi) 


I  OIL 


w 


AN  ANSWER 

LOVE  ? 

WHY,  know  you  not  that  I've  forgot 
More  than  you've  known,  except  in 

dreaming? 

That  flood  of  blisses  streaming 
Across  life's  page  without  a  blot 
Is  better  known  to  me 
Than  ever  yours  can  be. 

Love! 

'Tis  never  happy  when  'tis  deep, 
For  its  today  doubts  of  the  morrow, 
And  with  the  doubts  come  dread  and  sorrow 
That  cause  the  dearest  joy  to  weep, 

And  smiles  are  only  sighs; 

Know  you  this  love  of  lies  ? 

Love? 

Tis  never  unalloyed  and  pure, 
For  every  throb  has  had  its  staining, 
And  known  its  jealousies  so  paining 
To  those  who  seek  its  tempting  lure 

Of  fond  caress  and  kiss. 

Know  you  a  love  like  this  ? 

Love! 

Why,  girl  of  mine,  did  you  but  know 
How  this  my  heart  bleeds  when  it  doubts  you, 
And  yet  would  break  were  it  without  you, 

[10] 


II. 


You'd  never  wound  it  so, 
By  smiles  on  others  cast. 
Is  your  love  half  so  vast  ? 

Love! 

There  is  some  power  can  point  the  way 
To  love  that  hath  no  cloud  portending, 
And  bliss  that  never  finds  an  ending. 
And  it  will  only  come  that  day 

When  doubts  have  drowned  their 

strife 
In  two  sweet  words:  My  wife! 


THE  TRIFLER 

A\Y  with  sighs  when  we  can  conjure  smiles; 
Welcome  the  laughs  that  scoff  the  Canter's 

wiles ! 

Strew  we  our  pathways  ever  with  the  flowers 
That  spring  from  seeds  sown  in  those  midnight 
hours 

Midst  wine's  inspiring  showers. 

This  beauteous  world  is  all  too  full  of  stress 
On  deeds,  and  words  and  aims  of  soberness. 
So  fill  we  up  our  lives  with  trivial  things, 
Lest  seriousness  interpose  its  flings. 

And  clip  Good  Nature's  wings. 


SECRET  LOVE 


WAS  it  a  sin  to  love,  my  love, 
When  none  might  know  of  our  deep 

devotion  ? 
When  naught  but  the  peeping  stars  above, 

And  the  plaintive  sighs  of  the  breeze  of  ocean 
Were  told  of  the  wealth  of  our  secret  love  ? 

Was  it  a  sin  when  the  lonely  heart 

Hungered  and  sighed  for  the  sweets  of  affection  ? 
When  the  fathomless  depth  of  the  Love  God's  art 

Baffled  custom,  and  form,  and  forebade 

reflection, 
And  appealed  alone  to  the  passionate  heart? 

Was  it  a  sin  when  thy  lips  met  mine 

On  that  mossy  bank  'neath  the  moonlit  willow? 
When  my  sensuous  soul  was  commingled  with 

thine, 
And  thy  throbbing  breast  was  my  cheek's  soft 

pillow, 
And  thy  burning  kisses  were  merged  in  mine? 

Was  it  a  sin,  love,  that  wild  embrace, 

That  entrancing  hour  in  the  throes  of  passion  ? 

Was  it  a  sin  when  I  covered  thy  face 

With  the  kisses  of  lust  in  the  old,  old  fashion, 

And  we  tightened,  and  tightened  that  wild 
embrace? 


[12] 


There  was  no  sin,  O  my  love,  my  dove, 

And  what  if  there  were  ?  Let  us  revel  in  sinning, 

And  live  in  a  Heaven  of  secret  love, 

Prolonging  the  sweets  of  that  fair  beginning, 

Be  lovers  till  death,  O  my  love,  my  dove, 
My  darling,  my  idol,  my  secret  love! 


SOMETIMES 

SOMETIMES,  when  hope  seems  all  but 
dead, 

Our  minds  to  bitter  words  are  led; 
Sometimes  the  jealous  soul's  deceived, 
By  thoughts  that  else  were  not  believed. 
Sometimes,  again,  the  heart  tells  lies, 
To  find  what  often  trust  denies. 
But  there's  another  sometime,  dearie, 
When  souls  doubt  not,  nor  grow  aweary. 
Come  this  sometime,  somewhere,  some  day, 
Uniting  hearts  too  long  astray. 


l/r 


[13] 


SINTA  MAZA 


The  Moving  Spirit  of 
The  Huckleberry  Indians 

SING  to  me,  O  Muse,  in  that  staunch  man-song 
That  is  sinew  and  bone  of  a  Friendship  strong. 
That  is  loyal  as  light  to  the  dawning  of  day, 
That  hath  wanderings  long  which  go  never  astray 

Like  the  amorous  sighings  of  youth. 
But  are  stronger  and  firmer  as  years  roll  on, 
With  nothing  but  man-lore  to  dwell  upon, 
With  hearts  that  can  thrill  with  the  might  of  men, 
And  souls  all  aflame  to  inspire  the  pen 

That  is  dipped  in  the  ink  of  truth. 

Those  only  can  share  in  this  song  with  me, 
Who've  quaffed  of  its  strains  on  a  mimic  sea 
Which  bears  on  its  bosom  a  rock-bound  isle, 
All  astir  with  the  hearts  that  know  only  the  guile 

Of  a  good  pal  in  search  of  another. 
Where  there  is  no  voice  but's  attuned  to  glee, 
And  never  a  soul  but  hath  seemed  to  me 
To  throb  like  the  pulse  of  a  thing  of  might, 
And  shout  but  the  peans  of  wild  delight 

That  come  with  a  new-found  brother. 

Afar,  midst  the  throngs  of  a  stranger  land, 
I've  dreamed  of  the  feasts  of  this  brother  band, 
And  seen  in  the  visions  that  thralled  me  then, 
A  promise  that  soon  it  must  come  again, 
And  bid  sluggish  veins  awaken 

[14] 


ry/ 


To  pleasures  that  spring  from  the  friendly  seed 
Which  those  only  sow  who  are  dead  to  greed; 
Who've  builded  their  revels  from  stones  of  youth, 
And  sealed  every  soul  with  a  bond  of  truth 

That  Time  hath  not  moved  nor  shaken. 

To  the  infinite  joy  of  this  winter's  night 

Hath  an  exile  returned  and  his  heart  is  light; 

For  it  giveth  a  promise  of  joy  to  me, 

When  the  summer  hath  wakened  that  slumbering 

sea, 

With  the  bloom  of  long  days  of  revel. 
And  I  read  in  the  faces  that  smile  on  mine, 
And  hear  from  warm  lips  that  are  moistened  in  wine, 
The  welcome  to  be  on  that  wonderful  isle, 
Where  there's  nothing  but  play  and  the  welcoming 

smile 

That  scorneth  both  fame  and  the  devil. 

Ye  never  shall  know  of  the  meaning  to  one 
Who  was  clinging  to  life  that  was  all  but  done, 
To  be  bidden  so  oft  to  those  merry  times 
On  that  Island  of  Revel  where  manhood  rhymes 

With  the  palpitant  hearts  of  friends. 
For  there  never  was  one  but  the  lesson  has  taught, 
That  the  burden  of  years  which  our  fates  have 

wrought, 

Can  be  lightened  anew  with  the  youthtime  thrills, 
And  the  strengthening  balm  of  the  cup  that  fills 

With  a  man-love  that  never  ends. 

[is] 


But  alas!  there  were  those  of  that  magical  isle, 
Who  will  greet  me  no  more  with  the  hand-clasp  and 

smile 

That  were  wont  to  make  stronger  the  thrills  of  a  day, 
Driving  all  of  the  clouds  of  misfortune  away. 

And  leaving  me  youthful  again. 
So,  memory's  thrall  shall  be  always  there, 
And  keep  ever  its  spirit  smiles  everywhere, 
To  gladden  the  hearts  of  the  gladsome  throng, 
And  leaven  their  cups  with  wine  that's  strong 

As  the  passions  of  manly  men. 

Now  my  heart  close  to  your  hearts  would  nestle 

alway; 

My  thoughts  and  my  pen  shall  be  lured  into  play, 
So  that  what  I  have  learned  may  be  given  to  you, 
For  I  wot  of  no  band  that's  so  loyal  and  true, 

Be  your  orgies  as  deep  as  they  may. 
My  trust  and  my  manhood  I'll  barter  for  yours, 
For  I  know  that  your  hearts  are  aglow  with  the  lures 
That  bring  to  the  weary  that  comfort  and  rest 
Of  a  life  that  but  lives  for  the  joys  that  are  best, 

And  the  thrills  that  die  not  in  a  day. 

Let  me  pledge  ye  this  toast,  merry  tribesmen  of 


mine! 


Drown  the  sighs  for  the  sleeping  in  flagons  of  wine, 
And  drink  to  that  wakening  certain  to  be, 
When  we  revel  no  more  on  that  isle  by  the  sea, 
And  are  met  on  Eternity's  shore: 

[16] 


BWTS 


To  the  well  cherished  dead  we've  entrusted  to  God; 
To  the  brothers  He  touched  with  his  chastening 

rod, 

That  some  might  be  spared  for  our  revelling  nights. 
And  the  summer  days  wedded  to  strong  man's 

delights 

And  Friendships  to  live  evermore. 


THE  BLOT 

A  JEM  hast  thou  in  brilliant  mind 
Whose  radiance  floodeth  far  and  wide; 
Thou'rt  beautiful,  and  rich,  and  kind, 
And  Charity  hast  ne'er  denied. 

Thou  hast  a  lustrous,  melting  glance 
Whose  magic  fire  drives  doubt  away; 

Thou  rules t  with  sweet  arrogance, 

And  gather  hordes,  proud  of  thy  sway. 

Ah,  thou'st  an  hundred  charms,  and  still 
Each  one  is  tarnished  by  a  blot. 

Sincerity's  majestic  thrill, 

Mightiest  of  all,  thou  hast  forgot. 


[17] 


A  REVERIE  OF  BOHEMIA 


HERE  in  my  study,  looking  o'er 
The  broad  Atlantic's  gleam, 
Lit  by  the  silver  summer  moon, 
I  sit  alone  and  dream. 
An  hundred  voices  raised  in  song, 

Entrance  the  bustling  strand, 
And  pairs  of  lovers  glide  along 
Like  spectres  hand  in  hand. 

Whilst  many  a  pleasure,  freighted  shell 

Floats  o'er  the  silent  deep, 
Lulled  by  inspiring  music's  spell 

I  seek  the  peace  of  sleep. 
And  in  that  sleep  not  scenes  gone  by, 

But  those  that  be  today, 
I  see  beneath  my  native  sky, 

Three  thousand  miles  away. 

Fanned  by  the  soft  Pacific  breeze 

In  California's  clime, 
I  stand  beneath  her  giant  trees 

Majestical,  sublime. 
The  very  linnets  pipe  again 

That  cheered  my  boyhood's  ear; 
It  is  the  selfsame  wood  and  fen 

That  memory  brings  me  here! 


[18] 


O  mighty  forest  of  the  West, 
O  sighing  spires  of  God ! 

0  grand  Cathedral,  full  of  rest, 
O  flower-bejewelled  sod! 

My  spirit  wanders  forth  to  ye, 
And  present  in  my  dream, 

Are  shifting  scenes  of  mirth  and  glee, 
And  revel's  tireless  stream ! 

In  thy  vast  chancel  poets  sing 
Of  Friendships  firm  and  true; 

1  hear  enfeebled  voices  ring 

With  manhood  come  anew. 
And  songs  in  cadence  low  and  soft, 

And  songs  that  swell  with  mirth, 
Float  through  thy  columns  and  aloft, 

To  cheer  the  God  of  Earth ! 

An  hundred  spirits,  brothers  all, 

Are  gathered  at  thy  shrine, 
To  sing  in  praise  of  absent  ones, 

And  pledge  their  healths  in  wine. 
Then  are  the  voices  hushed  in  sleep; 

Stilled  are  the  sounds  of  glee, 
And  back  my  spirit  comes  to  weep 

That  dreams  can  never  be. 


[19] 


ANTICIPATION 

A.ITTLE  longer,  love,  and  I  am  thine! 
Ah,  let  me  linger  yet  a  little  while. 
In  this  sweet  dream  of  fond  anticipation, 
Be  patient — soon  thou  shalt  be  mine,  all  mine, 
And  I  would  these  my  last  free  hours  beguile 
With  blest  expectancy  of  fascination. 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  ask,  can  this  be  true; 
I'll  ponder  o'er  your  burning  pledge  of  love 
Exchanged  for  mine  when  we  were  lovers 

dreaming. 

I'll  live  our  blissful  trystings  all  anew, 
And,  gazing  in  the  jewelled  vault  above, 
Dream  that  deep  into  mine  thine  eyes  are 

beaming. 

And  when  my  muse  bids  me  to  dream  no  more, 
And  I  begin  to  crave  the  tempting  truth, 
Then  will  my  passion-secrets,  self-revealing, 
Become  thine  own  to  love  thee  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  yield  the  loyalty  of  pulsing  youth, 
With  sweet  resignment,  not  one  thought 
concealing. 


[20] 


SYLVIA 

WE  LOVED  each  other  once,  fair 
dove, 
So  deep,  that  we  were  held  in  sway 
By  what  did  seem  the  maddest  love 
That  ever  led  two  souls  astray. 

We  sailed  afar  across  the  blue 

Wafted  by  passion-freighted  wind; 

We  read  each  other's  thinkings  through, 
And  left  all  earthly  cares  behind. 

We  lingered  long  on  every  kiss, 

And  sighed,  and  nestled  face  to  face, 

And  knew  that  all  there  was  of  bliss 
Was  centered  in  each  wild  embrace. 

You  married.  But  I  lingered  still 

With  trysts  that  our  two  loves  begot, 

And  every  dream  awoke  the  thrill 
Of  youth-love  that  is  ne'er  forgot. 

And  then  you  wrote  that  we  must  meet 
As  friends;  we'd  been  too  long  apart. 

Ah,  temptress !  Once  more  at  your  feet 
I  lay  my  all;forgiving  heart. 


Friends  ?  No !  The  gods  that  rule  above 

Created  love  for  such  as  I, 
And,  living  in  our  world  of  love, 

We'll  dream,  and  kiss,  and  kissing  die! 

[21] 


THE  SIGH  OF  THE  SURF 

ROLLING,  rolling,  rolling, 
In  from  the  boundless  deep, 
Freighted  with  mighty  secrets 
Entrusted  me  to  keep. 
Bearing  upon  my  bosom 
Shadows  of  many  a  past, 
Yet  can  no  human  read  me, 
History  deep  and  vast. 

Rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 
Oft  in  the  twilight  gray- 
Pass  I  the  scores  of  maidens 
Gamboling  in  my  spray. 
Listening,  I  hear  them  prating, 
Each  of  some  lover  bold; 
Revealing  sinful  secrets 
That  never  should  be  told. 

Rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 
On  to  the  glist'ning  strand, 
Pass  I  two  dripping  sinners 
Standing  hand  in  hand. 
No  room  to  pass  between  them, 
But,  circling  them,  I  found 
That  both  were  secret  lovers 
Treading  forbidden  ground. 

Rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 
I  splash  another  pair, 

[22] 


©* 


unw 

*^N      I/T 


And  clouds  of  strife  and  passion 
Have  darkened  faces  fair. 
Hers  for  the  curt  refusal 
Of  a  fretful  woman's  whim; 
His,  that  she'd  cast  on  others 
The  smiles  denied  to  him. 

Rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 

Hear  I  the  gossips  say 

How,  nearly  all  about  me 

In  something  is  astray. 

Strange,  too,  they  are  mostly  women 

Who  ill  of  woman  speak; 

And,  bitterest  among  them, 

Those  who  themselves  are  weak. 

Rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 
My  ever-changing  tide 
Thinks  of  its  earthly  mission 
And  nothing  else  beside. 
Whilst  thou,  O  world,  unkindly, 
For  thoughts  of  gain  or  pelf, 
Lay  bare  the  faults  of  others, 
Unmindful  of  thyself. 


'5f 


THE  REVELATION 

Ah,  dearest  one! 

IF,  in  the  silence  of  those  mystic  hours 
When  conscience  holds  communion  with  the 
soul,  and  woos  the  heart  to  pity, 
You'd  pause  awhile  and  wrest  from  fate  its  secret, 

hid  so  long, 
Perhaps  another  heart  you  lured  from  where  it 

wandered, 

Might  learn  to  know  why  she  has  been  so  pitiless; 
Why  it  has  loved,  and  loved,  and  loved  so  much, 
That  other  loves,  once  truly  deep,  are  all  forgotten, 
Even  although  those  loves  were  happy  ones, 
And  this  is  not. 

Ah,  dearie  mine! 

Mistake  me  not,  when  I  confess  that  in  this  love,— 
So  deep,  that  if  I  knew  I'd  never  look  upon  your 

face  again,  I'd  love  you  none  the  less; 
So  deep  that  even  memories  of  other  loves  are  dead 

as  flowers  that  winter's  blasts  have  withered, 
I  have  found  all  but  peace. 
As  widowed  ones  love  on  thro'  years  of  endless 

wooing, 
And  love  the  dead  that  once  have  made  them 

happy. 

Ay,  all  but  peace! 

And  this  I  never  knew  from  that  enthralling  hour 
when  first  my  love  was  born, 


[24] 


Till  now  when  it  is  fierce  as  fire  and  deep  as  are  the 

boundless  heavens. 
Who  lures  a  love  like  this 
Should  yield  unto  that  love  more  than  a  mere  share 

of  love  returned. 
And  yet,  two  loves  that  loved,  two  other  loves 

betraying, 
Perhaps  should  bear  the  sting  of  loving  when  the 

world  may  never  smile  upon  it, 
And  let  its  secret  slumber  until  the  fate  I  spoke  of 

wakens  it 
To  that  one  blest  existence  that  brings  peace  to 

love. 

So,  sweet  beloved! 

Kiss  we  our  kisses  that  are  lies  to  all  but  us ! 
Live  we  in  those  embraces  that  are  mysteries  save 

to  you  and  me, 
And,  if  some  other  love  must  still  endure  to 

blemish  its  perfection, 

Live  we  two  on  until  that  one  other  fade  away, 
Or  Hymen  bind  us  two  in  one. 
But  be  it  only  one. 

Let  there  be  never  semblance  of  another  love, 
Nor  even  woman's  dearest  pastime  born  of 

coquetry. 

For  my  poor  heart  doth  hurt  enough  already, 
And  I  do  love  you  so,  I  love  you  so! 


[25] 


m 


THE  GIRLS,  THE  OTHER  GIRL 
AND  THE  BOY 

"^HESE  do  I  covet  far  beyond 
All  other  earthly  things  I  know; 
For  every  thought  that's  pure  and  fond, 
Seems  builded  on  the  endless  glow 
Of  blessed  peace  that  comes  to  me, 
Wherever  they  may  chance  to  be. 

These  do  I  love  a  thousand  times 

More  deeply  than  all  other  loves. 

My  heart  with  theirs  beats  tuneful  rhymes 

Of  endless  melody  that  proves 

How  Fate  was  kindless  in  that  she 

Reserved  them  not  for  only  me. 

This  have  I  hope  for  that  is  fair 
Above  an  hundred  springtime  gleams; 
And  if  but  Destiny  be  fair, 
Or  God  be  just,  then  shall  the  dreams 
I  dream  of  them  all  truthful  be, 
And  find  fulfillment  sweet  thro'  me. 

The  girls  and  boy  were  then  a  tide 

Upon  ambition's  mimic  ocean; 

The  boy  became  his  nation's  pride, 

The  girls  enslaved  by  that  devotion 

Which  even  tenderer  can  be, 

Than  the  deep  love  they  won  from  me. 

[26] 


<L~: 


Then,  were  the  other  one  alone, 
Of  girls  and  boy  by  love  bereft. 
But  I  would  place  her  on  the  throne 
Hope  builded  for  the  last  one  left. 
Again  the  blessed  first  to  be, 
For  them,  for  faith,  for  love,  for  me. 


ADELE 

GOLDEN  hairs  have  turned  to  silver 
Since  we  parted,  you  and  I ; 
But  the  years  have  not  been  sad  ones 
As  they  slowly  glided  by. 

For  a  face  was  ever  near  me 
In  my  musings  and  my  dreams; 
Giving  life  to  things  of  fancy, 
Wreathing  care  with  golden  gleams. 

Thine  the  face  that  lingered  near  me 
Since  the  moment  that  we  met; 
This  the  only  cloud  that  haunts  me: 
Hast  thou  learned  how  to  forget? 


*y    J   ^    \V  f*^    )  JJ 


TO  FRANK  UNGER 

On  hearing  of  his  fotal  illness 

AST  night  I  lay  upon  a  couch  amid  peaceful 
atmospheres  that  were  full  of  messengers 
from  out  of  the  past. 

My  head  was  pillowed  on  fragrant  flowers  of 
memory. 

The  coverlet  whereon  I  lay  was  cushioned  with 
soft  fabrics  fresh  from  the  looms  of  friendship. 

Into  the  warp  and  woof  of  it  there  were  strands 
of  recollection,  threaded  in  graceful 
knottings  to  the  tales  of  many  loves. 

These  glistened  under  the  soft  lights  from  the 
atmospheres  above  them,  and,  as  if  by  some 
magic  unbelievable,  they  sang  into  my  soul 
a  sweet  refrain  which  told  me  that  no 
memory  was  dead. 

In  my  soft  musing  I  lived  again  each  of  the 
memories  here  spread  before  me. 

They  seemed  as  clear  and  vivid  as  though  they 
had  grown  into  being  only  yesterday. 

Some  of  the  loves  were  sweet,  and  thrilled  my 
veins  with  the  same  throbs  that  came  at 
their  birth. 

[28] 


Some  were  idle  and  flitting  as  the  lives  of  hive 
drones,  and  their  footprints  upon  the  path 
ways  of  time  were  just  as  valueless. 

Some  were  blind  and  foolish,  and  I  sighed  to 
remember  that  they  had  ever  been  at  all. 

But  there  was  one  that  outshone  all  the  others, 
and  had  grown  stronger  and  deeper  amid  the 
sunshines  and  disappointments,  the  shadows 
and  the  unfulfillments  of  the  years. 

So,  too,  it  was  with  the  friendships  that  peopled 
this  filmy  thought-dream  of  memory. 

Some  were  strong  and  true;  instinct  with  the 
brawn  and  muscle  of  big  manhood. 

Some  came  and  went,  now  as  in  the  past,  and, 
leaving,  wrote  upon  my  soul  the  truth  that 
selfishness  had  created  them. 

Many,  just  as  some  of  the  loves  had  been,  it  were 
best  they  had  never  sprung  into  ephemeral 
soullessness. 

But  one  of  them,  like  that  love  which  never 
passed  out  of  my  life,  shone  brightly, 
resplendently  above  them  all. 

In  his  face  there  shone  the  soft  light  of  a  woman's 
soul,  yet  in  his  hand  was  the  firm  grasp  of  a 
giant. 


[29] 


V*        > 

% 


On  his  lips  there  never  trembled  the  words  of 
blasphemy,  and  his  soul  was  as  free  from 
evil  as  the  kiss  of  the  godly  from  sensuousness. 

Yet  he  was  man  in  every  fibre,  and  his  every 
heart-beat  kept  stalwart  harmony  with 
those  of  manly  men. 

Now  as  I  gloried  that  I  had  builded  this  friendship 
about  my  soul  in  walls  of  flint,  there  came  a 
message  writ  by  a  friend  almost  as  true  as  he. 

He  was  sick  unto  death  and  I  could  not  fly  to  him. 
His  head  was  heavy  and  my  hand  was  helpless 
to  raise  it. 

His  lips  were  parched  and  I  could  not  give  them 
drink. 

His  hours  were  lonely,  yet  I  could  not  be  there  to 
people  them  with  merry  beings  from  out 
that  bustling  world  of  hallowed  memory. 

If  I  were  only  there  I  could  make  him  laugh  or 
weep  at  will. 

If  I  were  there  I  could  make  him  to  forget  that 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  pain,  with  that 
unerring  balm  that  comes  with  man-love  for 
man-love. 

God  of  the  good  and  the  evil,  the  just  and  the 
unrighteous,  give  me  to  feel  that  this  exile 
be  not  eternal. 

[30] 


X 

c 


^r      /W 

-&im 


Give  me  to  say  what  only  I  could  say  and  bring  us 
both  contentment. 

Shone  there  then,  strong  through  those  atmos 
pheres  above  my  couch,  a  shining  star  that 
broke  the  silence  with  my  shout  of  joy. 

Its  name,  O  friend,  was  Hope  Fulfilled! 

O  beloved  pal  of  mine,  that  star  bids  me  hope. 

We  shall  again  foregather  with  the  best;  be  merry 
with  song  and  drunken  with  wine,  then  give 
unto  all  to  know  that  only  you  and  I  were 
perfect  friends. 
******** 

Weeks  then  of  silence  and  foreboding,  and  when 
I  sought  my  couch  again,  lo!  the  Star  of 
Hope  was  dull  and  darkened. 

The  atmospheres  above  it  were  heavy  with  the 
clouds  of  doom,  and  out  of  them  poured  rains 
of  tears. 

Flashed  on  the  wires  came  then  the  message  to 
say  the  end  had  come,  that  Hope  Fulfilled 
had  lied  again,  that  my  friend  was  dead. 

The  voice  that  had  sung  a  thousand  songs  of  love 
and  friendship  was  hushed  forever! 

Nature's  tears  of  rain  and  dew  fall  from  the  giant 
trees  he  loved,  for  he  was  Nature's  son. 


She  loved  him  as  he  loved  her,  for  he  was  loyal  to 
her  as  she  to  her  best  beloved. 

The  heart  that  had  sown  the  seeds  of  an  hundred 
fond  affections  can  beat  no  more,  but  its 
throbs  shall  live  in  the  memories  of  those  who 
cherished  them  and  loved  them,  as  doth  the 
flowers  their  morning  dew. 

The  fingers  that  have  strummed  through  days  and 
nights,  sweet  strains  of  melody  from  home 
and  stranger  lands,  are  stiff  and  cold,  but  who 
shall  say  that  they  are  not  graven  upon  the 
ears  of  those  who  listened  ? 

Yea,  my  one  friend  that  was  perfect,  is  dead! 

Gentle  hands  laid  him  to  rest  beneath  the  skies 

he  loved  best,  and  the  sweet  songs  of  Christian 
and  Pagan  united  in  requiems  for  him. 

These  words  George  Sterling  wrote  and  read  above 
his  bier,  and  I  who  knew  him  best  of  any  man 
can  say  amen,  sweet  friend,  farewell  until  we 
meet  again! 

"A  voice  is  mute,  that  had  no  word  of  hate, 
And  one  gone  forth  who  shall  not  come  again; 
A  comrade  true,  a  friend  compassionate, 
Tender  and  true,  a  soul  without  a  stain." 


cl: 


[32] 


IF  EVERYONE 

IF  EVERYONE  meant  all  that  everyone  says, 
What  a  dreary  old  world  this  would  be! 
If  everyone  knew  all  of  everyone's  ways, 
Why,  everyone  always  would  be  in  a  haze 
Of  doubt  and  distrust,  don't  you  see? 

If  everyone  knew  all  in  everyone's  mind, 

What  a  life  this  would  be  of  distress ! 
If  everyone  were  not  a  little  bit  blind, 
Why,  no  one  could  be  unto  anyone  kind, 
Nor  hold  him  in  blessed  duress. 

If  everyone  tore  away  everyone's  mask, 

What  a  sorry  awakening,  dear! 
If  everyone  worried  thro'  everyone's  task, 
Why,  no  one  would  dare  aught  of  anyone  ask, 

For  doubt  is  the  nestling  of  fear. 

If  everyone  were  but  to  everything  true, 
Why,  there'd  never  be  need  of  a  lie; 

If  everyone  everyone's  faults  could  undo, 
Then  everyone's  kiss  would  drown 

everyone's  rue, 
And  all  the  world's  sorrows  defy. 


I 


[33] 


GLft 


n. 


TO  A  FLIRT 

I  HAVE  wondered,  oh,  so  often,  in  these 
wanderings  of  mine, 
If  there  really  be  a  woman  with  the  vaunted 

truth  of  wine. 
With  a  heart  not  tired  of  loving,  and  a  conscience 

all  revealed, 

And  a  soul  that's  never  praying  for  its  evils  to  be 
healed. 

I  have  wondered,  oh,  so  often  why  it  never  yet 

could  be 
That  the  kiss  of  her  I  love  most  hath  not  always 

been  forme; 
That  there's  always  been  some  chasm  for  my  path 

of  bliss  to  span, 
And  the  last  most  cherished  idol's  mindful  of  some 

other  man. 


x. 

(! 


QUATRAIN 

ABLOSOMS  love  the  sun,  as  stars  the  night, 
Old  age  peace  undisturbed  and  youth 
delight; 

As  pain  loves  balms  that  heal,  and  sighings  glee, 
And  sorrows  laughter,  sweet,  so  love  I  thee. 


[34] 


TIME  AND  TIDE  MUST  WAIT 

AN  ALLEGORY 

Characters 
TIME  TIDE  MYSELF 

TIME 

('To  me)  Come,  come,  you  loiter.  Art  not  satisfied? 

MYSELF 

No,  something's  lacking.  I  appeal  to  Tide. 

TIDE 

My  heart's  with  his.  Like  me  it  comes  and  goes, 
And  life  to  him,  like  mine's,  all  ebbs  and  flows. 

TIME 

That  moves  me  not.  Flotsam  and  Jetsam,  too, 
Were  his  to  search. 

MYSELF 

But  all  my  lifetime  through, 
Hath  neither  brought  me  what  my  star  foretold. 
Hopes  were  destroyed;  searched  I  in  vain  for  gold; 
Those  that  I  loved  best  died,  Ambition,  too. 
And  well-aimed  purposes  all  went  askew. 
Give  me  to  try  again. 

TIME 

Not  young  enough. 
Success  awaits  but  those  of  sterner  stuff. 


^"D 


[35] 


Your  day  is  nigh.  Remember  Time  and  Tide 
Wait  for  no  man. 

TIDE 

That  I  have  denied. 

As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'll  flow  tonight 
And  ebb  again  tomorrow.  Now  we  two 
Appear  to  go  together. 


Play  dice  with  Fate  ? 


TIME 

What  wouldst  do? 


TIDE 

Ay,  life  is  but  a  toss; 
Man  wins,  he  loses,  but  there  is  no  loss 
Ambition  can't  regain. 

TIME 

But  his  is  dead. 

MYSELF 

True,  the  ambition  that  to  greatness  led, 
But  there's  another  dearer  far  to  me. 


TIME 


What  is  it? 


MYSELF 

I  would  have  my  life  set  free 
From  ogres  that  have  clouded  it  with  doubt; 


[36] 


Worms  that  have  gnawed  my  heart  within, 
without. 


There  are  destroying  evils  I'd  dispel, 
To  make  a  Paradise  of  what  is  hell. 

TIME 
You  mean  the  world? 


MYSELF 

Of  course. 

TIME 

You  made  it  so. 

MYSELF 

That's  true  enough,  but  listen:  There's  no  woe 

But  there's  a  joy  to  heal  it.  There's  no  sorrow 

Without  the  laugh  to  dry  its  tears.  Tomorrow 

Hath  good  to  down  the  evil  of  today. 

Not  young  enough  ?  Leave  that  for  one  to  say— 

If  such  there  be  alive — who  hath  the  power 

To  cause  me  to  forget  that  dark'ning  hour 

When  once  again  I  loved  to  find  I'd  erred; 

I'd  breathed  a  prayer  that  but  a  wanton  heard, 

And  led  me  into  hells  of  doubt.  She  lives ! 

As  there's  a  God  who  mortal  sin  forgives, 

So  must  there  be  some  power,  Time,  to  decree 

That  what  Fate  hath  denied  my  destiny 

Is  mine  to  win. 

TIME 
Thou  art  in  love  again  ? 

[37] 


MYSELF 

I  am  afraid  so,  but,  like  other  men, 
Terred  in  that  too.  I  shall  err  no  more. 

TIME 
And  is  your  heart  still  young? 

MYSELF 


Yea,  to  the  core. 


TIME 


Then  luck  attend  you.  I  will  wait  with  Tide, 
For  hearts  that  hunger  should  not  be  denied. 

(Exeunt.) 


FULFILLMENT 

Is  THERE  a  woman  to  adore, 
Even  though  truth  be  dead  ? 
Beats  there  a  heart  to  drown  the  score 
Of  loves  forgot  and  fled? 

If  such  exist,  lead  me,  O  Fate, 

To  her,  and  bid  me  cast 
Aside  all  memory;  the  mate 

I've  sought  were  found  at  last ! 


[38] 


A  PROTEST 

AITTLE  more  of  faith 
That  breeds  no  wraith, 
A  little  more  of  courage  from  her 

soul; 

A  little  more  of  bliss 
Born  of  her  kiss, 
And  I  shall  soon  have  reached  Ambition's  goal, 

For  'twould  seem  hardly  just 

That  loves  can  rust 
In  cruel  separation's  bitter  gall, 

When  only  one  command, 

One  trustful  hand, 
Could  place  us  two'neath  Love's  eternal  thrall. 

Justice  indeed  is  blind, 

And  Faith  unkind, 
If  soulless  ones  can  laugh  when  lovers  weep; 

If  those  who  live  through  sin 

Can  proudly  win, 
While  for  the  blameless  ones  Hope  lies  asleep. 

O  God  who  rules  above! 

W7ho  counselled  love, 
Why  grant  success  to  those  of  pelf  and  lust, 

Wrhen  mated  ones,  apart, 

Bleeding  of  heart, 
Have  nothing  for  their  travail  and  their  trust? 


[39] 


,"> 

^ 


<-</ 

^(^ 

s 


0 


Jj 


1K^ 

^1  i/lfrv  /T^  \\ 


A  MEMORY 


IN  AWESOME  thrill,  thrice  met  mine  eyes  her 
own; 
Thrice  touched  my  fingers  hers,  then 

passed  away 

Life's  fairest  vision  into  memory. 
Then  comes  back  retrospection,  for  I  see 
Again  the  face  that  thrilled  my  soul  one  day, 
Lit  by  the  fairest  eyes  that  ever  shone! 

Our  lips  are  wide  apart  as  earth  from  sun; 
Our  hopes  forefend  a  kindred  recompense, 
Still  am  I  thrilled,  musing  again  on  her, 
Picturing  blissful  hours  that  never  were, 
And  then,  misleading  reason,  fact  and  sense, 
Paint  me  a  stream  of  bliss  that  cannot  run. 

Men  live  to  die,  hopes  come  to  be  dispelled; 

Dynasties  fade  away  and  nations  fall. 

But  this  soul-dream  of  mine,  scornful  of  these, 

Buildeth  its  fabrics,  airy  as  the  breeze 

Of  summer's  morn,  and  grieveth  not  at  all 

For  that  her  hand  may  ne'er  in  mine  be  held. 

Strange  art  thou  not,  O  love  that  hath  no  wound; 
That  needs  no  kiss  to  seal  thy  bond  of  faith, 
Nor  a  caress  to  drive  mistrust  away? 
Yet  thou'rt  as  true  as  is  the  night  to  day; 
Without  a  longing,  fearing,  pang  or  wraith, 
For  thou'rt  a  grail  that  was  not  sought  nor  found. 

[40] 


£f\ 

] 


Thou  shalt  endure,  strange  love,  while  yet  we  live, 
Albeit  she  nor  I  may  never  know 
What  each  doth  of  the  other  feel  or  care, 
Yet  thou'rt  a  love  as  potent  as  thou'rt  rare; 
Thou  know'st  no  envious  pang  nor  jealous  flow, 
Hath  nothing  to  forget,  none  to  forgive. 


HER 

THERE  is  no  thought  of  mine 
For  things  that  were; 
There  is  no  dream  divine 
But  is  of  her. 

There  is  no  other  kiss 

My  soul  can  stir; 
There  is  no  dream  of  bliss 

But  is  of  her. 

Close  in  her  arms  I  lay, 

My  soul  awhir; 
My  sighings  are  astray 

Whene'er  with  her. 

Staunch  as  the  rugged  pine, 

Or  graceful  fir; 
Make  her,  Gods,  ever  mine, 

Give  me  to  her! 

[41] 


rr 


SOME  DAY 

SOME  day  it  will  come, 
The  loving  with  believing; 
When  she  will  rest 
Upon  a  breast 
That  she  fears  is  deceiving. 

Some  day  it  will  come: 
The  trusting  with  devotion; 

The  ins  and  outs 

Of  burning  doubts, 
Now  baffling  true  devotion. 

Some  day  it  will  come: 

When  but  one  voice  will  call  me; 

And  only  she 

Will  come  to  me 
To  hold  me  and  enthrall  me. 

Some  day  it  will  come, 
With  all  its  thousand  blisses, 

Its  ripened  hours 

Now  only  flowers 
Of  thrills,  and  throbs,  and  kisses. 

Some  day  it  will  come, 

When  days  are  years  without  me; 

I'll  patient  be 

If only  she 
Will  learn  no  more  to  doubt  me. 

[42] 


TO  A  YACHT 

f } /**&  \j\  M%£*Jnt 

PROPHETIC  name  thou  surely  hast, 
Fair  Goddess  of  the  summer  sea; 
From  keel  to  truck  thy  lot  is  cast, 
Good  Fortune's  sprite  to  ever  be. 
Fond  fantasies  of  cheer  thou'lt  bear 
To  balmy  shores  where  Revel's  king; 
Decks  manned  by  all  who  scoff  at  Care, 
Thy  cabins  freighted  by  the  ring 
Of  laugh  and  song, 
The  whole  day  long, 
Fortuna! 

Ah,  not  alone  thy  name  portends 
Thy  never  failing  wealth  of  bliss; 
Thy  destiny  is  one  that  ends 
But  with  the  chill  of  Time's  last  kiss. 
For  once  thy  pleasure  cruises  o'er, 
Then  shall  thy  merry  mission  cease; 
But  Fortune  blessed  thee  with  the  store 
Of  Friendship,  revel,  rest  and  peace, 

That  shall  be  thine 

While  stars  can  shine 
Fortuna! 


[43] 


ft 


\^ 


TO  GEORGE  T.  BROMLEY 

On  his  Eighty-fourth  Birthday 

THRO'  years  that  never  aught  but  manly  lustre 
shed, 

He  whom  we  feast  today  has  laughed  at  Time, 
And,  with  the  reaper  in  his  hand,  lopped  off  the 

head 

Of  each  conspirer  'gainst  the  bond  sublime 
That  seals  man's  heart  to  man's. 
Thro'  days,  and  nights,  and  weeks,  and  months  of 

merry  years, 

That  rugged  heart  of  his  has  only  beat 
For  Friendship  and  for  Friendship's  cause,  nor 

sighs  nor  tears 

Have  stilled  its  endless  flow  of  nature  sweet, 
That  held  Bohemia's  clans. 

Thro'  countless  revels  that  were  big  with  song  and 

wit, 

His  voice  rang  out,  the  blithest  of  the  best; 
His  tongue  framed  words  as  sage  as  Plato's 

greatness  writ, 
His  soul  enlisted  to  an  endless  quest 

For  natures  lost  to  joy. 
On  every  atmosphere  he  breathed  the  life  of  cheer 

Wreathed  all  in  smiles.  Men  loved  him  better  far 
Than  ever  woman  loved  her  lord.  For  none  sincere 
As  Friend-love,  which  no  jealous  lust  can  mar, 
Nor  passion's  thrill  alloy. 

[44] 


Thro'  orgies  that  have  youthful  vigors  drowned  in 

wine, 
And  strong  man's  wits  transformed  to  tongueless 

things, 
His  wine-proof  mind,  as  though  controlled  by 

hands  divine, 
Poured  thro'  his  lips  as  smoothly  as  on  wings 

His  quips  of  jest  and  song. 
Then,  when  the  nascent  day  dethroned  the  waning 

night, 

And  glared  on  Kings  of  Revelry  laid  low, 
This  King  of  Kings  reigned,  sleepless  victor  of  the 

fight, 

And  wit  and  song  rang  still  in  joyous  flow, 
All  thro'  the  whole  night  long. 

Thus,  thro'  these  merry  years  from  one  to  eighty- 
four, 

This  good  old  man  hath  lived  without  a  foe, 
Save  him  who  laughs  at  Friendship's  care  destroy 
ing  lore, 
Or  closes  mind  and  ear  its  thrill  to  know, 

Or  rails  at  all  emotion. 
And  thro'  the  coming  years, — please  God,  a  score 

at  least, — 

Let  us  each  natal  day  in  revel  meet; 
Unite  our  merry  souls  with  his  in  drunken  feast, 
And,  till  the  next,  his  joys  be  full  and  sweet, 
And  boundless  as  the  ocean. 


[45] 


TO  ALEXANDRA  CARLISLE 

COULD  I  but  crown  thee  beauty's  best, 
Then  were  its  dearest  diadem 
Already  thine.  Now  doth  the  quest 
For  womanhood's  most  radiant  gem 

Find  in  thy  glance  the  peaceful  tide 
Of  thrall  forever  satisfied. 

When  Nature,  bountiful,  bequeathed 
The  mirrored  splendors  of  her  spell 
Upon  her  chosen  queen,  she  wreathed 
Its  flowers  on  thee;  ringing  the  knell 
Of  vaunted  rivals,  in  an  age 
When  beauty  rules  the  mimic  stage. 

Now  dost  thou  rule  with  matchless  grace 

While  dignity  vies  with  thy  art, 
To  limn  the  glory  of  a  face 

Bright  with  the  glow  from  woman's  heart, 
And  who  doth  win  that  heart  ?  Ah  me ! 
That  worthless  man  so  blest  can  be! 

Time  was,  when  in  the  crowded  stalls 

I  echoed  plaudits  of  a  throng 
That,  fettered  by  a  woman's  thralls, 
Crowned  her  with  admiration's  song; 
Enthroned  her  queen  of  beauty,  then 
Enchained  the  memories  of  men. 


: 

- 


[46] 


Then  earnest  thou,  and  harking  back 
Far  in  the  maze  of  Memory's  mist, 

There  stood  another  in  the  track 
Of  her  once  by  perfection  kissed. 

I  woke,  I  thrilled,  I  knew  that  then 
The  faultless  Neilson  lived  again. 


AH,  PRETTY  JANE! 

A,  pretty  Jane,  ah,  pretty  Jane! 
I  fear  I've  loved  thee  all  in  vain. 
I  fear  thy  heart  knows  no  pulsation 
Responsive  to  my  fascination. 
And  often  I  have  had  a  thought 
While  struggling  with  this  wild  unrest, 
That  my  fond  love,  although  unsought, 
Deserveth  not  thy  flippant  jest. 

Ah,  pretty  Jane,  ah,  pretty  Jane! 
Doth  there  no  hope  for  me  remain? 
Come!  Be  thou  frank  and  all  confiding; 
'Tis  time  my  fate  thou  wert  deciding; 
Whate'er  it  be,  I  promise  this: 
To  love  thee  though  my  heart  thou'lt  sever, 
And,  dreaming  of  a  phantom  bliss, 
Rest  happy  in  that  dream  forever! 


J 


[47] 


m 


TO  A  LADY  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY 

A  GLEAM  of  sunshine  came  one  day 
Z\  Suffused  a  home  with  light, 
^         And  on  its  golden  bosom  lay 
A  jewel  brought  from  far  away 

Enrobed  in  pink  and  white. 
O  bounteous  sun !  O  day  benign 

That  gave  that  priceless  gem 
For  gentle  hands  to  intertwine 
Midst  other  pearls  of  rare  design 

In  a  mother's  diadem! 

*\  A^Ck. 

Twas  but  a  day  'mongst  other  days, 

For  often,  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  same  sun's  joy-encumbered  rays 
To  happy  homes  brought  songs  of  praise. 

Such  gems  were  made  before, 
But  this  day  to  one  loving  breast 

Was  fairest  of  its  kind: — 
This  jewel  was  of  all  the  best 
The  guerdon  of  a  lover's  quest 

By  hope  and  faith  designed. 

The  day  came  every  year  again, 

Sometimes  brought  with  it  tears, 
And  then  the  sun  shot  shafts  of  pain, 
Like  cruel,  blinding  floods  of  rain, 

To  drown  the  hopes  of  years. 


[48] 


Dead?  No!  A  lover  true  and  bold 

Brought  to  the  jewel  rest, 
And  offered  peace  and  love  untold, 
Then  showered  it  with  affection's  gold 

And  pinned  it  on  his  breast. 

No  day  now  but  is  bright  and  fair, 

The  sun  sheds  only  light, 
And  bears  no  shadow  on  his  brow, 
The  jewel  beams  upon  us  now, 

And  cheers  our  hearts  tonight. 
That  day,  sweet  friend  ?  It  gave  you  birth. 

The  sun  ?  Devotion  true. 
The  lover?  Fie  whose  manly  worth 
Made  you  most  blest  of  all  the  earth. 

The  jewel?  It  was  you. 


IN  A  GIRL'S  ALBUM 

TF  THY  maturity  the  sweet  charm  brings 
Which  now  so  nobly  ornaments  thy  youth, 
Thou  wilt  be  worthy  to  be  sought  by  kings, 
A  very  queen  of  womanhood  and  truth. 

And  when  that  day  has  come,  I  hope  to  see 
The  consummation  of  my  fancy's  whirl: 

The  little  friend,  admired  at  Sunapee, 
As  grand  a  woman  as  she  was  a  girl. 


[49] 


AT  A  BACHELOR'S  DINNER 

Given  to  William  F.  Humphrey 

THERE'S  power  in  criticism  made  in  fun, 
And  who'd  condemn  equivocation's  jest? 
But  neither  criticism,  joke,  nor  pun 
Has  ever  gotten  "  underneath  the  vest." 
For  there  equivocation's  heart's  concealed; 
Into  its  depths  no  flippancies  intrude, 
And  there  cheap  wit  sleeps,  ever  unrevealed, 
Beneath  the  throbs  of  Friendship's  gratitude. 

We  write  what  we  are  told  to  write  sometimes, 
And  think  what  we  are  asked  to  think,  because 
Incisive  prodding  is  best  done  in  rhymes, 
And  there's  some  glory  in  amused  applause. 
But  in  the  dignity  of  Friendship's  call 
There  tolls  the  knell  of  Ribbald's  epitaph, 
And  I  were  rather  dumb  beneath  its  thrall, 
Than  moved  to  noise  impelled  by  Humor's  laugh. 

So  whispers  Conscience  to  my  heart  tonight, 
When  bidden  to  this  merry  feast  of  friends 
Foregathered  in  the  strength  of  Manhood's  might 
To  further  seal  the  bond  that  never  ends, 
But  is  as  boundless  as  the  round  of  Time; 
Sealed  unto  trust  inspired  by  Fealty's  word; 
And  so,  I  ever  keep  in  tuneful  chime 
Sweet  Memory's  cadence  by  affection  stirred. 


[So] 


f  /r 


sy^r^ 


t 

He  whom  we  honor  here  with  manly  lust 
To  show  what  loyalty  can  do  or  feel, 
Was  chosen  for  his  seat  of  power  and  trust, 
Where  he  might  Wisdom's  plentitudes  reveal. 
And  I  have  chosen  him  to  stand  supreme 
Amidst  the  memories  that  cannot  fade, 
For  when  tired  effort  languished  in  a  dream 
He  spake  the  words  from  which  sweet  hope  was 
made. 

And  even  though  that  hope  were  not  fulfilled— 
For  hopes  are  vaunting  things  oft  leaped  in  vain,- 
I'll  not  forget  keen  disappointment  killed 
When  he  awoke  ambition  once  again. 
I'd  not  these  cumbrous  platitudes  impart 
To  merry  minds,  foregathered  but  to  jest, 
Save  that  I'd  voice  what's  in  a  grateful  heart, 
For  that  he  sowed  new  courage  in  my  breast. 

He  softened  age,  brought  smiles  into  its  home; 
Now  I  would  spread  that  heart  with  Friendship's 

pen 

Upon  the  pages  of  fond  Memory's  tome 
Where  are  remembered  only  worthy  men. 
Now  let  me  laugh  with  you,  and  drink  with  you 
Till  I  be  drunken  with  inspiring  wine; 
Stand  unabashed  on  Revel's  brink  with  you, 
Where  Cant's  unmasked  and  only  Truth  may 

shine! 


V*          > 


Where  envy  can  forget  the  greeds  of  Trade, 
And  thro'  whose  hazards  only  truth  were  won; 
For  here  are  only  friend-communions  made, 
So  now,  a  toast  to  Bill,  and  I  am  done; 
Live  he  as  long  as  Worth  and  Wisdom  live; 
Be  there  no  lull  in  Fortune's  winning  strife; 
Come  there  no  wrong  that  he  cannot  forgive, 
And  find  he  woman  good  enough  to  wife! 


ABSENCE 

A  Fragment 

THERE'S  a  chill  in  the  heart  when  we  say 
good-bye, 

And  a  palpitant  throb  of  pain; 
There's  a  hungering  soul,  and  a  lonesome  sigh 
When  we  look  for  the  face  in  vain, 
That  has  beamed  with  delights 
Thro'  the  days  and  the  nigRts, 
And  yet,  never  a  day  nor  a  night  can  die, — 
For  in  absence  we  live  them  again. 


[52] 


1 

It 


WILD  as  a  lion  in  leash  I  sighed  for  freedom, 
So  burst  my  duty's  bonds  that  held  me 

fast, 

And,  with  a  bound,  stood  in  the  world  again 
With  naught  to  stay  me.  There  within  my  sight 
The  beck'ning  summits  of  the  city's  hills 
Dared  me  to  mount  their  sunny  battlements, 
And  with  a  laugh  I  bounded  at  their  gage. 
O  hallowed  God  of  earth !  How  all  my  soul 
Throbbed  then  to  know  that  I  was  free  again 
To  hold  communing  with  myself  alone ! 
How  every  nerve  thrilled  new  to  know  that  I 
Was  for  a  time  to  'scape  the  palling  gloom 
That  hung  about  a  chamber  wooed  by  death ! 
Now  should  the  memory  of  sweeter  things, 
The  tuneful  thoughts  of  an  unbridled  mind, 
Lull  me  to  day-dreams  long  since  strangers  to  me, 
But  ah !  No  thought  save  one,  no  face  save  one, 
No  dreams  save  one,  and  all  of  her 
Appeared  to  light  my  freedom's  fantasy. 
For  every  sun  ray  seemed  to  be  her  eyes, 
And  in  the  sun  itself  I  saw  her  face. 
The  gentle  breeze  that  sang  down  from  the  sea 
Fell  on  my  cheek  and  seemed  to  be  her  kiss. 
Alone  I  walked  and  yet  was  not  alone, 
For  everywhere  there  seemed  a  voice  from  her 
To  cheer  my  loneliness,  and  in  my  soul 
Inspire  the  thought  that  she  was  at  my  side. 


[53] 


Then,  when  my  feet  grew  sore  I  sat  me  down 
And  once  again  revealed  my  soul  to  her. 

"Loved  one  of  mine,"  I  said,  "again,  again, 

And  yet  again,  let  me  declare  to  you 

That,  till  the  day  I  told  you  of  my  love, 

No  other  woman  e'er  was  loved  before ! 

Until  that  madd'ning  hour  when  first  I  held 

You  close  against  my  heart  and  burned  your  cheek 

With  that  first  kiss  of  passion  long  asleep, 

No  man  or  woman  knew  what  passion  meant. 

And  in  the  days  that  ripened  into  months, 

And  through  the  months  that  broadened  into 

years, 

That  love  and  passion  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew, 
Until  it  seemed  that  we  must  conjure  death 
To  waft  us  into  undiscovered  worlds 
Which  teach  of  other  passions,  other  loves." 

"I  love  your  hair,  your  eyes,  your  cheeks,  your 

lips, 
Your  ears,  your  throat,  your  shoulders  and  your 

breasts, 

And  oft,  to  prove  the  ardor  of  my  love, 
My  lips  have  pressed  them  all  a  thousand  times! 
And  I  do  know  I  wasted  not  my  passion, 
For  all  these  kisses  I  have  had  from  you, 
Upon  my  body,  every  one  in  kind. 
If  there  were  times  when,  in  my  jealous  rage, 
I  hurled  against  you  words  to  cut  and  wound, 

[54] 


mrW- 


They  only  proved  the  ardor  of  my  love, 
And  passions  that  were  grandest  when  they  stung. 
******* 

A  steeple  clock  rang  out  the  evening  hour, 
So  I  kissed  back  the  soft  caressing  breeze, 
Then  came  again  into  my  saddened  home. 
But  it  was  fairer,  sweeter,  brighter  now; 
For  Fd  brought  with  me  from  the  city's  hills 
The  spirit  presence  of  my  absent  love. 


SENT  WITH  A  BOTTLE  OF  WINE 

TGETHER  we  sipped  at  the  wine  one  day, 
^e  chatted  and  trifled  the  hours  away, 
But  you  never  knew 
As  we  revelled  them  through, 
That  something  was  stealing  my  something  away. 

Ah,  was  there  a  spell  that  was  subtle  and  fine, 
A  charm  that  was  hid  in  that  bottle  of  wine? 

Or  was  it  your  smile 

That  was  heavy  with  guile: 
The  something  a-stealing  my  something  away  ? 

Your  blessing  bestow  on  the  tribute  I  send, 
And  let  it  all  manner  of  somethings  portend. 

Something  like  unto  bliss, 

Something  sealed  with  a  kiss, 
Be  it  something  to  cause  all  my  somethings  to  end. 

[55] 


j 


I  DREAMED  of  you  last  night, — 
Ah,  such  a  dream! 
Bright  visions  of  delight 
Enslaved  my  wond'ring  sight, 

And  it  did  seem 
I  held  a  velvet  hand, 

And  glided  through 
Some  rapture-laden  land 
Whose  joys  I  could  command 
If  there  with  you. 

For  you  and  I  were  there. 

Fond  lovers  we; 
We  wandered  everywhere, 
And  pictured  fancies  rare 

Of  ecstacy. 
The  hours  grew  into  days, 

The  days  to  nights, 
And  we  thrilled  through  a  maze 
Of  love's  ten  thousand  ways 

To  lure  delights. 

Then  I  awoke  and  sighed 
That  phantoms  lie, 

And  leave  naught  else  beside 

An  ever-shifting  tide 
Of  memory. 


[56] 
!il^^£ 


This  dream  must  never  die, 

But  live  anew; 
Have  I  the  faintest  gleam 
Of  hope  to  live  the  dream 
I  dreamed  of  you? 


AN  AWAKENING 

SPEAK  to  me,  conscience,  leave  no  truth 
untold, 
For  if  I  love  her  not,  then  would  I  know 
Why  all  my  lifetime's  wraiths  have  turned  to  gold; 
Why  day  and  night  is  one  sweet,  sighless  flow 
Of  fond  delirium;  why  full  of  glow 
This  blood  of  mine,  but  yesterday  so  cold, 
That  every  heart  throb  seemed  a  sigh  of  woe. 
My  conscience  answers  not — my  heart's  too  bold. 

Nay,  then,  I  know  that  silence  e'er  consents. 
Mind,  to  thy  work!  Brain,  hasten  thou  to  prove 
That,  all  else  dead,  'twill  be  enduring  still: 
This  mad  wild  passion  that's  the  reverence, 
The  all  in  all  of  an  eternal  love, 
That  time,  nor  law,  nor  fate  can  ever  kill. 


[57] 


TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL 

I  WONDER  why,  sweet  little  girlie. 
That  when  we  meet  I  seem  to  see 
A  something  midst  life's  hurly-burly 
That  draws  you  very  close  to  me. 

I  wonder  why  your  eyes  are  bluer 

Than  any  little  girl's  I  know; 
Why  every  glance  of  them  is  truer 

Than  all  I  see  where'er  I  go. 

I  wonder  why  you  find  me  staring 
At  eyes,  and  face,  and  sunny  smile, 

And  longing  that  I  might  be  sharing 
The  love  you're  shedding  all  the  while* 

I  know,  sweet  one,  for  I  remember 

A  little  girlie  just  like  you, 
Who  promised  for  my  life's  December 

All  of  the  loves  sires  ever  knew. 

She  is  an  angel  now  in  Heaven, 

And  that's  so  many  far-aways ! 
But  there's  not  one  day  out  of  seven 

But  back  to  me  her  spirit  strays. 

And  only  yesterday  while  dreaming 
Of  what  she  was,  you  smiled  on  me, 

And  through  your  eyes  that  spirit  streaming 
Recalled  what  once  she  used  to  be. 


[58] 


JM 


And  that  is  why,  sweet  little  girlie, 

I  can't  help  staring  at  you  so, 
And  why,  midst  this  life's  hurly-burly, 

You  bring  back  that  blest  long  ago. 

UNSATISFIED 

WY  is  my  only  joy  my  deepest  sorrow; 
Wiy  must  my  wildest  hopes  be  unfulfilled? 
Why  this  bliss  of  today  leave  for  the  morrow 
But  anxious  doubts  refusing  to  be  stilled? 

Ah,  love  of  mine,  she  whom  thou  lovest  never 
Paused  to  reflect  upon  how  mad  thou  art, 
Or  she  would  stab  thee  not  with  words  that  ever 
Disclose  that  all  mine  own  is  not  her  heart. 

O  hope  of  mine!  Why  must  this  burning  sorrow 
Be  all  the  keener  when  thou  seemest  bright? 
Why  send  me  pain  when  every  throb  I  borrow 
Brings  never  hope  in  dreams  of  day  or  night  ? 

There  is  one  hope:  that  what  is  now  foreboding 
May  be  but,  after  all,  my  burning  soul 
Mad  with  the  fire  of  what  is  only  goading 
And  tempting  me  to  find  her  own  hope's  goal. 

If  this  be  so,  then  shall  I  bear  my  sorrow 

Until  the  struggle  end,  and  I  receive 

What  she  hath  promised  for  the  sometime  morrow, 

And  till  that  come,  Fate,  teach  me  to  believe. 

[59] 


I 


A  VISION 


AEWEL  set  in  nebulae  of  gold, 
All  sparkling  in  the  radiance  of  youth; 
A  flower  whose  glory  never  yet  was  told, 
If  ever  sage  or  poet  spake  the  truth. 

A  girl  far  fairer  than  I've  seen  before, 
A  woman  worthy  of  a  thousand  loves; 

A  charioteer  ne'er  matched  in  ancient  lore, 
A  beauty  spotless  as  the  breasts  of  doves. 

An  idler  I,  looks  from  a  gaping  throng, 
Upon  that  vision  bright  of  white  and  gold, 

Whose  lack  of  years  denies  the  wooer's  song, 
Whose  adoration  must  not  yet  be  told. 

If,  in  this  tribute  to  a  living  gem, 
I  have  exceeded  modesty's  demand, 

If  plucking  you  from  Nature's  diadem 
Has  been  impertinent,  why,  here  I  stand 

Upon  the  right  of  Fancy's  dreams  to  live, 
And  ask  you  to  forgive. 


[60] 


IN 


JEALOUSY 

WHY  is  it,  love,  the  more  you 
err, 
The  more  my  soul's  afire  ? 
Why,  when  my  jealous  rage  you  stir, 
The  greater  my  desire? 

Why  is  it,  love,  when  other  men 
Are  happy  'neath  your  glance, 

That  I  seek  your  embrace  again, 
And  flaunt  their  arrogance? 

Why  is  it,  love,  when  I  have  known 
That  you  were  false  to  me, 

I  placed  you  still  on  fancy's  throne 
And  loved  in  ecstasy? 

Why  is  it,  love,  I've  said  good-bye 
An  hundred  times,  and  still 

Returned  to  you  to  drown  your  sigh 
In  trustful  rapture's  thrill? 

Because,  my  love,  that  jealous  woe 

Must  ever  conquered  be, 
When  what  you  taught  me  long  ago 

Is  told  again  to  me. 


[6.] 


COME,  BE  THOU  MINE! 

CME,  be  them  mine,  mine,  mine  alone, 
For  by  the  Gods  I  madly  love  thee! 
Thine  eyes  within  my  soul  hath  shone 
Far  brighter  than  the  stars  above  thee, 
Come,  be  mine  own! 

Come,  be  thou  mine!  Within  my  breast 
I've  found  a  love  that's  just  beginning. 

'Twere  thine  but  for  one  faint  request, 
And  though  'tis  love  that  dreams  of  sinning,. 
It  is  my  best! 

Come,  be  thou  mine!  I  will  not  say 
I've  loved  no  other  long  before  thee; 

But  memories  past  I'll  drive  away, 
If  thou'lt  but  bid  me  to  adore  thee 
By  night  and  day! 

Come,  be  thou  mine!  Was  that  a  blush 
Upon  thy  waxen  cheek  soft  creeping? 

Ah,  was  it  the  responsive  flush 

Of  yielding  love  that  hath  been  sleeping? 
Hush,  darling,  hush! 

For  thou  art  mine,  mine,  mine  alone, 
Bound  by  a  tie  but  death  can  sever; 

Chained  by  a  sin  love  can  atone, 
If  thou'lt  live  in  my  heart  forever, 
My  all,  my  own ! 

[62] 


NS 


A  (<fg 

N*«£ 


I  K 

fert 


kf) 


A  RETROSPECT 

IT  HAD  been  for  the  best,  O  dearest  one  of  mine, 
If,  when  we  met  that  day,  you  had  not  touched 

my  hand. 
Then  we'd  have  never  heard  Fate's  pitiless 

command 
To  seal  a  bond  of  love  before  another's  shrine. 

It  had  been  for  the  best  when,  once,  I  bowed  my 

head 
And  touched  my  lips  to  yours  if  you  had  turned 

away, 
For  then  would  not  have  come  this  warning  of 

today 
That  two  loves  like  to  ours,  alas !  were  better  dead. 

It  had  been  for  the  best,  that  night,  afar,  alone, 
When  you  shrank  not  beneath  my  first  enrapt 

embrace, 
If  you'd  not  let  me  rain  my  kisses  on  your  face, 

For  then  nor  you  nor  I  had  filched  another's  throne. 

It  had  been  best,  perhaps,  but  then  nor  you  nor  I 
Could  have  been  glad  to  thrill  beneath  forbidden 

bliss, 
Or  revel  in  the  thrall  of  every  stolen  kiss, 

Created  by  untruth,  and  glory  in  the  lie. 


33 


A  EAR  for  thee,  Laura,  as  full  as  can  be 
Of  the  joys  that  true  happiness  knows; 
Of  sighings,  and  sorrows,  and  cares  ever  free 
As  fair  Caribbee's  shores  are  of  snows. 

Come  there  never  a  hope  but  is  fitly  fulfilled, 

Nor  a  wish  that  is  ever  denied. 
Come  there  never  a  sigh  by  Love's  magic  unstilled, 

Nor  a  care  by  Love's  kiss  undefied. 

Be  thy  faith  never  blind,  nor  thy  trust  undeserved, 
Nor  the  love  that  thou  givest  misplaced; 

Be  thy  wooer  the  kind  whose  stout  heart  never 

swerved 
From  the  paths  that  staunch  loyalty  traced. 

In  the  sleep-dreams  thou  hast  be  there  never  a 

sigh; 

In  the  day  ones  no  cloud  of  regret; 
Through  the  wearisome  hours  be  there  one  ever 

nigh 
Who  can  prove  there  are  true  lovers  yet. 

I  dare  not  tell  all  that  my  heart  could  reveal; 

I  would  not  say  less  than  is  here, 
For  I  sigh  for  consents  that  will  bid  me  to  steal 

Every  hour  of  each  Happy  New  Year! 


>v  ^' 


WE  TWO 

A 'AIR  of  dancing  eyes  aglow  with  passion; 
A  pair  of  lips  that  tempt  the  lover's  kiss. 
Which,  if  but  nurtured  in  the  old,  old  fashion, 
And  taught  the  raptures  of  affection's  bliss, 
Might  drive  from  out  my  life  Care's  every  trace: 
This  is  thy  face. 

A  pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of  wild  desire, 
Alas !  too  oft  defeated  in  his  quest, 
Hath  found  in  you  the  latent  spark  of  fire 
That  stirs  the  smould'ring  flame  within  his  breast, 
And  bids  him  hope  for  one  responsive  sigh: 
This,  love,  is  I. 

Two  souls  new  burning  with  the  same  hot  shafts, 
And  arms  that  scorn  each  wild  embrace  to  shun; 
Two  mouths  that  sip  at  once  the  same  sweet 

draughts, 

Two  lives  foresworn  to  merge  them  into  one, 
And  dream  of  ecstasies  no  power  can  leaven: 
This,  this  is  Heaven! 


c^C: 
g 


fit 


THE  FOUNT  OF  YOUTH 

Huckleberry  Island,  N.Y. 

I    LANGUISHED,  a  slave  to  the  city's  greed 
For  the  things  that  are  foes  to  health; 
I  chafed  'neath  the  sting  of  the  galling  need 
That  inspires  not  the  Kings  of  Wealth. 
I  loosened  the  fetters  of  toil's  fell  grip. 
And  fled  with  a  joyous  bound, 
To  the  riverside,  and  a  waiting  ship, 
And  sailed  for  the  Merry  Sound. 

There  were  breezes  there,  and  the  swish  of 

waves; 

There  was  cheer  full  of  Friendship's  truth; 
But  I  couldn't  escape  from  the  deep'ning  graves 
That  were  yawning  for  dying  youth. 
And  I  cried  aloud  in  the  waning  power 
Of  a  vigor  that  daily  sped. 
Ye  Gods !  Have  I  come  to  the  last  fell  hour 
When  the  things  that  are  new  are  dead? 

And  is  there  no  place  where  new  fancies  dwell; 
No  Fount  where  there's  youth  on  draught? 
No  shore  for  a  rest  from  the  toiler's  hell, 
That's  afar  from  the  lusts  of  graft? 
I  ask  not  the  pride  of  a  golden  fame, 
I  scorn  vapid  form's  duress; 
God  give  me  abandon  that's  lost  to  shame, 
And  the  freedom  that  laughs  at  dress! 

[66] 


s 


*\ , 

r* 

«   4:  O 


My  bark,  sped  along  by  the  summer  breeze, 

Drew  close  to  the  dim  outline 

Of  a  rocky  isle  topped  by  pigmy  trees, 

That  were  dwarfed  as  this  hope  of  mine. 

We  nearer  drew  till  we  touched  the  shore; 

I  stood  midst  the  sounds  of  glee; 

My  ears  were  thrilled  with  the  magic  roar 

Of  Friendship  in  revelry. 

It  was  found  at  last,  and  I  sighed  no  more 
For  the  days  that  were  passed  and  gone; 
Here  were  fairer  days  than  I'd  known  before, 
And  as  wild  as  e'er  looked  upon. 
And  I  pledged  my  love  to  this  friendly  band, 
For  they  taught  me  that  youth  can  live 
So  long  as  there  lies  in  the  true  man's  hand, 
The  best  that  a  heart  can  give. 

I  shall  give  my  best  on  each  summer's  day 

When  we  sail  to  that  pigmy  isle, 

For  I  now  am  one  whom  they  taught  the  way 

For  the  sigh  to  become  a  smile. 

Here's  a  health  to  you  and  big  wealth  to  you, 

And  a  youth  that  shall  never  end; 

For  the  youth  I'd  lost  was  inspired  anew 

When  you  lured  me  to  make  me  friend. 


SHE 


SHE  met  my  glance,  I  felt  a  thrill, 
She  smiled,  —  all  thought  of  others 
fled; 

She  touched  my  hand,  my  heart  stood  still; 
She  kissed  me  and  the  past  was  dead. 

She  told  me  I  might  come  again, 
And,  all  compliance  when  I  came, 

She  gave  my  wooing  hope,  and  then 
My  sadness  bore  another  name. 

She  bade  me  flee  with  her  afar; 

She  guided  me  from  prying  eyes; 
She  taught  me  what  true  blisses  are, 

And  weaved  the  spell  that  never  dies. 

I  pressed  my  lips  close  to  her  face, 

She  pressed  my  head  close  to  her  breast; 

She  lingered  long  in  my  embrace,  — 
I  learned  all  that  in  life  is  blest. 

She  has  been  all  in  all  to  me; 

She  taught  me  what  I'd  never  known; 
And  promised  then  to  ever  be 

The  Empress  of  affection's  throne. 


[68] 


A  BASKET  OF  FLOWERS 

AASKET  of  flowers  that  were  fresh  and  fair 
As  the  promise  of  childhood's  dream, 
They  placed  in  my  hands,  and  I  held  it  there 
Till  its  fragrance  enveloped  the  lamplight's  glare 
And  sweetened  its  festal  gleam. 

They  told  me  the  blossoms  had  come  from  you 

As  a  tribute  to  gathered  years, 
That  garnered  life's  pleasures,  its  friendships  true, 
And  learned  all  that  goodness  and  evil  knew, 

'Midst  its  dreamings  and  blessings  and  tears. 

Tis  sweet  in  the  shadows  of  growing  age 

To  learn  that  the  fair  can  remember 
How  truly  their  gifts  can  the  cares  assuage 
Of  a  youth  that  hath  fled,  and  adorn  the  page 

Of  fair  Memory's  gray  December. 

And  down  thro'  the  years  I  shall  keep  those  blooms 

You  sent  me  that  birthday  night, 
Just  as  fresh  as  they  were  in  the  lighted  rooms, 
In  Memory  shrined  to  besweeten  the  glooms 

Thro'  the  gloam  of  life's  gathering  night. 


> 

(fa. 


TO  VICTOR  HERBERT 

On  his  Fifty-first  Birthday 

ArEAR  ago,  Victor,  in  vintages  mellow, 
We  pledged  your  half  century  run; 
Tonight,  friendship's  cup  we  have  filled  and 

to  spare, 

With  hearts  in  the  wine  and  a  thrill  in  the  prayer 
That  God  bring  but  peace  and  success  to  a  fellow 
Who  hath  honored  Fame's  years  fifty-one. 

Blessed  fifty-one  years!  Each  a  page  in  the  story 
Of  a  soul  Genius  juggled  from  Fame, 
Then  filled  full  of  melody  sweet,  and  the  art 
To  thrill  and  to  throb  with  the  beat  of  a  heart 
Attune  with  ambition  to  fight  for  the  glory 
That  lies  in  the  power  of  a  name. 

That  name  has  been  writ  on  the  book  of  the  ages, 

It  will  live  till  our  greatest  be  dead; 

But  the  heart  that  must  die  we  have  filched  for  our 

own, 

For  'tis  filled  with  a  power  that  is  sweeter  than  tone, 
And  tempered  with  tune-lore  from  dreams  of  the 

sages, 
Whilst  fifty-one  years  gaily  sped. 

There  are  loves,  Victor  friend,  that  are  revels  of 

blisses; 
There  are  others  that  live  upon  sighs; 


[70] 


fuf*^?  /r^iiu  f'^^j&ii  j 


Some  are  sweeter  than  flowers,  others  fiercer  than 

fire; 

Yet  there's  never  a  one  but  some  day  must  expire. 
But  man's  love  for  his  pal,  that's  not  builded  on 

kisses, 
Can  live  till  Eternity  dies. 

From  the  Friendships  as  deep  as  the  bed  of  the 

Ocean, 

Victor  boy,  we  have  culled  the  most  true; 
And  the  gift,  pledged  in  wine,  that  is  pure  as  the 

glow 

Of  your  fifty-one  years,  and  as  sweet  as  the  flow 
Of  your  languorous  melodies  full  of  emotion, 
We  offer  tonight,  boy,  to  you ! 


I 


THE  BUBBLE 

BLIND  as  the  throb  of  a  love  that's 
dead, 

Still  as  the  voice  of  the  skies; 
Beauteous  thou  wert  as  thou  onward  sped 

To  a  realm  that  is  built  of  sighs. 
For  thou  diedst  as  soon  as  thy  being  came; 

Were  destroyed  by  an  atom's  thrust; 
Ah!  then,  is  life's  bubble  an  empty  name, 
And  hope  but  a  fleck  of  dust? 


A  FANTASY 

I'VE  loved  and  lost,  then  loved  again, 
Till  it  has  seemed  to  me 
That  loving  best  were  love  in  vain 
And  loveless  I  must  be. 

My  wildest  fancies  came  to  naught, 

No  woman  e'er  was  true; 
I  steeled  my  soul  'gainst  love  that's  bought, 

And  then — then  I  met  you! 

And,  meeting  you,  came  back  again 

The  hungerings  of  yore; 
Fate  seemed  to  link  our  souls,  and  then, 

My  heart  was  light  once  more. 

Then  I  began  to  dream  a  dream 

That  made  me  long  to  live 
Within  that  never  ending  gleam 

That  only  love  can  give. 

I  fancied  scenes  where  you  and  I 

Lived  in  a  world  of  bliss; 
Blest  by  a  love  that  cannot  die; 

Strengthened  by  passion's  kiss. 

And  every  time  our  two  lips  met, 

We'd  pledge  our  vows  anew, 
And  closer  weave  Love's  tangled  net 

In  meshes  close  and  true. 


[72] 


\ 


V 


Oh,  tell  me  not  I  hope  in  vain; 

Say  not  your  heart  is  chilled 
With  thoughts  of  coldness  and  disdain 

For  him  whose  soul  you've  thrilled. 

But  place  my  image  in  your  breast, 
My  soul  beneath  your  sway, — 

I'll  be  a  slave  to  each  bequest 
And  love  my  life  away! 


A  BIRTHDAY  SONNET 

Sent  to  an  elderly  lady,  with  a  miniature  of  Youth 

A.  those  purloining  years  from  Father  Time 
To  their  own  age  diminish,  really  steal 

The  very  keystone  of  that  arch  sublime 
That  spans  the  glory  of  a  lifetime's  weal. 
For  if  that  life  is  pure  and  full  of  leal 
Too  many  years  there  cannot  be, — for  youth 
While  teeming  with  delights  but  youth  can  feel, 
Knows  not  the  joy  of  ripened  trust  and  truth. 
Thus  has  it  ever  been,  dear  friend,  with  you; 
None  of  your  years  has  felt  the  blush  of  shame, 
So  every  added  one  but  whets  your  pride, 
And  in  your  woman's  face  there's  more  that's  true, 
Than  hath  this  girl  within  its  golden  frame 
For  your  life-trust  is  proved  and  hers  untried. 


1 


NX/. 


[73] 


FAREWELL  TO  A  FRIEND 


FAREWELL,  farewell!  Affection's  sigh 
Was  never  breathed  with  more  regret. 
The  bonds  of  Friendship's  holy  tie, 
Were  never  stronger,  firmer  met 
Than  now,  as  I  bid  thee  good-bye, 
Good-bye ! 

Farewell,  farewell!  Life's  turgid  stream 
Shall  wend  its  fitful  journey  through; 

The  glory  of  thy  youthful  dream, 
May  fire  ambition's  soul  anew, 

But  ne'er  forget  a  friend's  esteem. 
Adieu! 

Farewell,  farewell!  You  must  fare  well, 
For  new-born  ardor  fires  your  soul. 

Fear  not  if  ill  luck's  flimsy  shell 

Should  clog  thy  path  to  fortune's  goal. 

Remember,  industry  must  tell — 
Farewell ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  When  I  am  nigh, 
Within  thy  thought,  consult  thy  heart, 

And  know  that  lovers'  love's  a  lie, 
For  'tis  a  bond  a  word  might  part, — 

But  Friendship  true  can  never  die, — 
Good-bye ! 


[74] 


THE  TRYST-BOWER 

AD  this  the  world  of  bliss  if  dreams  could  be, 
In  which  forever  I  would  live  with  thee: 
A  blest  existence  born  of  youthtime  fire, 
Devoted  each  to  each,  brain,  heart  and  soul; 
Foredoomed  disciples  of  a  mad  desire 
Which  two  warm  natures  place  beyond  control. 

A  mirrored  chamber  hid  from  Scandal's  storms, 
Reflecting  each  position  of  our  forms; 
Portraying  fair  hope-pictures  which  would 

change 

With  every  new  caress  and  every  kiss; 
Painting  love  vistas  wondrous  fair  and  strange, 
One  vast  kaleidoscope  of  pulsing  bliss. 

And  here  we'd  hide  away  from  prying  eyes, 
'Midst  garnered  stores  from  loveland's  argosies. 
We'd  feed  each  heart-thrill  from  this  goodly  store, 
And  fan  to  flame  love's  embers  o'er  and  o'er. 
Then,  even  though  we  never  met  again, 
Time  would  recall  a  tryst  not  kept  in  vain. 


*3 


[75] 


THE  SILVER  WEDDING 


RING  out  the  bells  with  a  joyous  peal! 
A  joy  that  no  thought  of  care  is  dreading; 
A  joy  that  is  fraught  with  the  brightest  weal, 
And  the  Star  of  Love  its  rays  are  shedding, 
O'er  the  happy  throng 
That  with  gift  and  song 
Have  come  to  the  Silver  Wedding. 

Ring  out  the  dreams  of  the  years  of  bliss ! 

Awaken  the  spell  of  the  magic  potion 
That  came  with  the  joy  of  a  lover's  kiss; 

That  was  leavened  and  sweetened  by  Youth's 
emotion, 

Then  found  its  goal 
In  a  woman's  soul 
And  the  strength  of  a  man's  devotion. 

Ring  out  the  thread  of  this  lovers'  tale, 

So  wondrous  and  fair  in  its  dreamy  telling! 
Ah  me!  That  this  feeblest  of  pens  should  fail, 
When  my  Friendship's  soul  with  a  wish  is 
swelling, 

To  sing  of  the  life 
Of  the  faithful  wife 
Who  graces  this  happy  dwelling. 

Ring  out  a  toast  to  the  honored  twain! 
Ring  out  the  bliss  of  a  love  undying; 

[76] 


J.v 


Lost  be  their  future  to  Sorrow's  stain, 

As  the  flakes  of  snow  on  the  white  drifts  lying; 
Be  their  coming  hours 
All  bestrewn  with  flowers 
And  their  souls  ever  free  from  sighing. 

Ring  out  the  thought  I  would  fain  impart, 

Where  the  Silver  Wedding  bell  is  swinging! 
Pealing  the  pride  of  a  husband's  heart; 
Out  of  the  past  fondest  memories  bringing 
The  mem'ries  of  youth, 
The  mem'ries  of  truth, 
And  the  songs  of  affection  singing. 

Ring  out  the  bells  with  a  joyous  clang! 

As  the  path  to  a  Golden  One  they're  treading, 
They  dream  of  the  love  that  from  children 

sprang, 

And  stronger  and  bright  through  the  long 
years  spreading, 

Until  soul  unto  soul, 
They  have  come  to  the  goal 
Of  this  wonderful  Silver  WTedding. 


[77] 


I  WONDER  when  'twill  end, 
This  life  of  hidden  sorrow 
That  seems  to  bliss  portend, 
Yet  hath  no  morrow 
But  bodes  of  hopes  defied, 
And  dreams  fulfilled  denied, — 
I  wonder  when? 

I  wonder  when  'twill  cease 
This  struggle,  cruel,  bitter, 

That  never  soul  gives  peace, 
Nor  thrall  its  glitter, 

But  something  steps  between 

To  dull  its  gladsome  sheen, — 
I  wonder  when  ? 

I  wonder  when  'twill  close 
Its  chapters  full  of  lying; 

This  love-tale  sad  that  shows 
But  Destiny's  decrying 

Of  that  fair  fabric  built 

Of  passion,  bliss  and  guilt, — 
I  wonder  when  ? 


X 

e 


FANCY'S  PROMISE 

THEY  tell  me  your  eyes  are  as  black  as  night, 
That  your  hair  hath  the  color  of  molten 
gold; 

That  your  hand  can  respond  to  the  lover's  clasp 
With  the  passionate  thrill  of  a  lust  untold. 

That  your  bosom  will  heave  with  a  thrill  of  delight 
In  the  sensuous  flush  of  a  love  that's  new; 
And  this  was  the  vision  of  longings  bright, 
When  they  told  of  the  joys  I  could  find  in  you. 

And  so  I  have  lived  in  this  wonderful  dream, 
And  fancy  hath  made  me  your  lover  bold; 
And  oft  in  the  night  it  would  almost  seem 
I  held  you  tight  clasped  in  mad  rapture's  fold. 

And  ah,  how  I  love  in  those  dreamings  so  fair, 
That  are  cheering  my  soul  on  its  wandering  way! 
If  they  were  not  lying,  those  phantoms  so  rare, 
How  madly  we'd  revel  the  night  into  day! 


1 
Ip 


[79] 


IN  SYMPATHY 

WHAT  is  there  pity's  bleeding  heart  can  say 
To  soothe  the  sorrows  of  this  darkened  day, 
Unless  it  be  to  lift  the  heavier  pall 
Of  stricken  souls  that  have  been  robbed  of  all  ? 

What  is  there  in  the  eyes  that  weep  with  you, 
To  staunch  the  flow  of  tear  showers  ever  new, 
Unless  it  be  to  look  with  them  afar 
To  that  beyond  where  waiting  lost  ones  are? 

What  is  there  lulled  ambition  can  decry, 
Thro'  heavy  clouds  with  every  roll  a  sigh, 
Unless  it  be  to  seek  ambition's  lures 
Amidst  the  wrecks  of  others  lost  like  yours? 

What  is  there  manhood's  master  hand  can  steal 
To  prove  how  keenly  manhood's  heart  can  feel, 
Unless  it  be  to  filch  for  you  from  Fate, 
Thrills  of  new  courage  ere  it  be  too  late? 

What  can  the  voice  of  sympathy  uplift 

From  out  the  mires  where  hopes  have  gone  adrift, 

Unless  it  be  to  speak  with  you  as  one, 

Those  words  so  hard  to  say:  "Thy  will  be  done!" 


[80] 


:ffi 


^1 

c^ 


p 


TO  HENRY  WATTERSON 

I  ASK  thee  not  to  weep  not,  friend, 
For  tearless  hearts  are  those  that  sever 
And  leave  behind  sighs  without  end, 
For  stricken  souls  that  bleed  forever. 

I  bid  thee  not  say,  "It  were  best," 

This  blow  that  dimmed  thy  closing  page, 

For  it  denied  thee  peace  and  rest 
To  ease  the  burdened  hours  of  age. 

I  pray  that  God  may  give  thee  power,  — 
If  there  indeed  be  power  Divine,  — 

To  lighten  every  coming  hour 

Of  her  whose  wound  is  deep  as  thine. 

For  it  were  sad  indeed  to  know 

That  two  lives  with  all  gladness  flown 

Must  fade  beneath  a  kindred  blow, 
And  bear  their  throbs  and  stings  alone. 

I  ask  thee,  friend,  but  only  this: 
Ere  that  first  pang  of  grief  expire, 

Take  from  my  heart  the  pitying  kiss 
Of  one  Fate  made  a  childless  sire. 

Perhaps  'twill  weave  a  gentler  tie 
Between  two  souls  all  dark  within; 

For  Friendship's  thrills  can  never  die 

And  Friendship's  tears  breed  hearts  akin. 


) 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
GENERAL  JO.  WHEELER 

E5T  to  the  bugle,  O  heroes  in  blue, 
Hark  to  the  death-roll,  O  sons  of  the  gray ! 
Weep  for  the  chieftain,  long  tried  and 

found  true, 

Whose  name's  writ  on  memory's  tablets  today. 
Droop,  droop,  starry  banner,  for  him  who  once 

fought  you 

Defending  a  right  that  he  bled  to  maintain, 
Then,  when  a  foeman's  spite  threatened,  he  brought 

you 

The  might  of  a  sword  never  wielded  in  vain. 
Forgetting  the  gray  in  the  call  of  the  blue; 
Remembering  naught  but  that  soldiers  are  true. 

March,  grizzled  comrades  of  old,  to  his  bier! 
Halt,  Federal  braves  with  palmetto  in  hand! 
For  he  that  did  honor  to  both  lieth  here, 
Bestrewn  with  the  flowers  of  a  sorrowing  land. 
Ah,  read  in  that  silent  form  bravery's  story; 
Ah,  hear  in  the  beats  of  a  throng's  muffled  tread, 
The  tribute  of  love  to  a  patriot's  glory, 
Enrolling  a  soul  midst  the  great  that  are  dead. 
Forgot  he  the  gray  in  the  call  of  the  blue; 
Remembering  naught  but  the  danger  to  you. 

Hark!  From  an  isle  in  a  tropical  sea, 

There  cometh  a  wail  that  is  tearful  and  deep; 

[82] 


No  one  more  deserving  of  honor  than  he, 
In  freeing  a  people  who  knew  but  to  weep. 
Borne  soft  on  the  breezes  this  message  of  sorrow, 
Sped  swift  o'er  the  waves  of  a  murmuring  sea, 
Entwining  the  yesterday  into  the  morrow, 
To  mourn  for  a  hero  who  battled  them  free. 
Forgetting  the  gray  in  the  call  of  the  blue; 
Remembering  naught  but  that  soldiers  are  true. 


AN  ADVENTURE 

ONLY  a  glance  that  was  arch  and  shy, 
Yet  it  told  a  volume  as  I  passed  by, 

Looked  at  her 

And  wondered  if  that  was  a  smothered  sigh. 
Would  it  were! 

Only  a  smile  that  was  meant  to  kill, 

And  it  filled  my  soul  with  a  madd'ning  thrill, 

And  a  pang. 
For  she'd  murder  hid  in  the  depths  of  her  eyes, 

'Neath  her  bang. 

Only  a  smirk!  Not  a  word  to  say, 

As  she  lifted  her  satchel  arid  passed  away, 

Out  of  sight. 
But  would  she  allow  me  to  lead  her  astray? 

Not  tonight! 


te& 


[83] 


GOOD-BYE,  JOE  COYNE 

IT'S  too  bad  to  make  light  of  good-bye,  Joe, 
In  the  revel  and  souse  of  a  "  bat," 
But  'twould  seem  the  best  way 
One's  excuses  to  play 
On  the  thirsts  that  old  Bacchus  begat. 
And  perhaps  it  were  best,  after  all,  Joe, 
To  enliven  the  sighs  of  the  years, 

With  communion  of  friends 
That  so  very  much  lends 
To  the  drying  of  impotent  tears. 

We  have  bid  you  good-bye  oft  before,  Joe,— 
You  were  chasing  the  bubble  called  fame, — 

But  nobody  dined  you, 

Nor  flattered  nor  wined  you, 
For  you'd  never  a  gloss  to  your  name. 
But  conditions  are  different  now,  Joe: 
Success  lit  oblivion's  gloam; 

For  when  you  came  back 

You'd  made  a  good  crack 
At  becoming  an  idol  "  at  'ome." 

You  had  captured  the  hearts  of  the  best,  Joe, 

Princes  begged  you  to  make  them  your  pals; 
Wealthy  dowagers,  too, 
Sized  your  date-book  anew, 

Not  forgetting  some  donahs  and  flals. 

They  were  poor  fish  that  came  to  your  net,  Joe, 

[  8.4  ] 


But  the  fishiness  didn't  offend; 

For  you  knew,  in  your  heart, 
Some  of  them  didn't  start, 

And  all  means  never  win  the  same  end. 

You  were  bidden  at  last  to  New  York,  Joe, 
To  amuse  and  enlighten  your  own, 

And  I  heard  many  say 

In  a  jocular  way 

That  Joe  Coyne  had  grown  haughty  in  tone; 
That  you'd  been  Piccadillyized  hard,  Joe, 
And  forgotten  old  Time's  retrospect; 

That  your  monocled  eye, 

And  bored  ennui  sigh, 
Gave  eclat  to  a  Strand  dialect. 

But  you  answered  our  welcoming  homes,  Joe, 
Just  as  though  you'd  been  never  away; 
And  your  speech  was  as  true, 
To  the  Chair's  bally-hoo, 
As  the  fountain  is  true  to  its  spray. 
And  the  monocled  eye  was  a  myth,  Joe, 
And  your  hand-clasp  was  shot  at  short  range; 
Were  it  not  for  the  sight 
Of  your  name  writ  in  light, 
We  should  never  have  seen  any  change. 

Now  good  Yankees  don't  give  a  gol  darn,  Joe, 
If  a  fellow  be  true  to  his  own; 


[85] 


r>: 


& 


Whether  he  clinks  his  glass 
With  some  millionaire  ass, 
Or  some  crown-laden  boob  on  a  throne, 
So  long  as  he'll  clink  it  with  friends,  Joe, 
Who've  shared  in  those  struggles  that  tell; 
Who  can  chat  with  a  joke 
Of  the  days  we  were  broke; 
Of  the  summer  weeks  gloomy  as  hell ! 

And  that's  what  we've  found  you  to  be,  Joe, 
And  that's  why  we've  bidden  you  here, 
To  pledge  you  Godspeed 
On  that  mission  of  greed 
And  to  hold  you  to  memory  dear. 
For  we  know  that  you'll  never  forget,  Joe, 
Who  you  are,  what  you  are,  where  you're  at; 
And  that  when  you  return 
You'll  have  welcomes  to  burn, 
Wearing  still  the  same  size  of  a  hat. 


V 

(! 


THE  SEASONS 

MY  SPRING  came  with  hope  that  was  full 
of  light, 

With  Summer  the  hope  grew  strong; 
In  Autumn  'twas  dull  as  the  pall  of  night, 

And  the  Winter's  mournings  long. 
But  beneath  the  chill  of  that  Winter's  sting, 
The  hope  left  seeds  for  another  Spring! 

[86] 


WHAT  SHALL  IT  BE? 

WHAT  shall  it  be,  what  shall  it  be, 
The  result  of  our  first  flirtation  ? 
Was  it  a  passing  dream  to  me 
Of  a  new  infatuation  ? 
Or  did  it  foretell  of  a  world  of  bliss; 

Of  a  feast  of  love  unsated; 
Or  was  there  a  sign  in  that  telltale  kiss 
That  our  two  hearts  were  mated  ? 

What  shall  it  be,  what  shall  it  be  ? 

The  love  that  is  ever  flying 
Like  a  restless  zephyr  from  tree  to  tree, 

Which  is  born — but  a  breath — then  is  dying? 
Or  shall  it  be  free  as  the  rock-bound  shore 

That  walleth  the  home  of  the  billow  ? 
Shall  I  know  that  'twill  bring  to  me  joy 
evermore, 

When  your  head  on  my  breast  finds  its  pillow? 

What  shall  it  be,  what  shall  it  be  ? 

Oh,  let  me  the  truth  revealing, 
Disclose  you  a  heart  that  is  warm  and  free, 

Full  of  thoughts  I'd  refrain  from  concealing. 
Let  me  teach  you  a  love  that  is  one  wild  dream  :— 

Then,  all  visions  of  rapture  disclosing, 
Our  souls,  full  of  doubt  and  its  sighings  would 
seem 

In  a  world  of  sweet  bondage  reposing. 


A  PARAPHRASE 

To  LOVE,  or  not  to  love,  that  is  the  question. 
Whether  'tis  better  for  the  swain  to  suffer 
The  sighs  of  solitary  loneliness, 
Or  take  at  once  that  heart  upon  his  hand, 
Load  it  with  gold,  and  leave  for  maids  to  play  for. 
To  love,  to  like,  no  more,  and  in  that  liking 
To  say  we  end  the  heartaches  and  the  sighs 
That  loneliness  is  heir  to — 'tis  a  state 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.  To  love — to  like; 
To  like,  perchance  to  dream!  Ay,  there's  the  rub. 
For,  too  much  like  a  woman,  dreams  may  come 
To  picture  her  so  plainly  what  she's  not, 
And  paint  the  hues  of  virtues  ne'er  to  be, 
That  life  becomes  a  myth.  In  that  respect 
We  make  calamity  of  married  life; 
For  who  could  bear  her  likes  for  other  men; 
Her  coquetries  that  foster  jealousies; 
The  pangs  of  promised  love  with  its  delays; 
Feeble  excuses  for  engagements  broken, 
When  he  himself  might  endless  comfort  make 
By  loving  no  one?  Who'd  the  burden  bear 
That  comes  to  all  who  live  a  double  life 
But  for  the  rapture-laden  passion-land: 
That  love-discovered  country  from  whose  bourne 
No  man  has  yet  returned  unchained  by  bliss, 
Nor  in  regret  for  those  fair  ills  he's  won, 
And  feeling  there  are  more  he  knows  not  of? 
Thus  passion  doth  make  weaklings  of  us  all, 

[88] 


And  thus  the  bachelor's  weak  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  woman's  selfishness; 

Becomes  a  thing  that's  but  a  feeble  toy, 

To  squeak  and  strut  whene'er  it  suit  her  humor; 

To  wink  askance  at  all  her  indiscretions, 

Until  one's  very  thoughts  must  turn  awry 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


THE  ACTOR 

WHO  am  I,  do  you  ask?  Why,  goodness  me! 
'Most  anything  that  you  might  like  to  see, 
Or  hear,  or  think  about,  seek  or  invent, 
And  that's  an  actor.  Thing  of  discontent 
Or  joy  or  sorrow,  in  their  many  stages, 
Oft  times  produced,  alas!  for  promised  wages. 
And  even  promise  kept,  to  be  exact, 
Leaves  much  to  be  desired,  for  'tis  a  fact 
That  no  vocation  underneath  the  sun 
Demands  so  many  talents  merged  in  one. 
But — and  I'm  sure  you  never  would  suppose  it, 
The  manager  is  he  who  very,  very  seldom  knows  it, 
For  when  he  lays  his  next  production's  pipes, 
His  cast,  he  thinks,  must  be  made  up  of  types. 
Why  on  the  actor's  art  put  such  restraint, 
When  type's  a  thing  of  powder  and  of  paint  ? 
Now  he's  no  type  of  true  dramatic  art 
Who  cannot  typify  'most  any  part. 


Today  I  am  a  doctor  giving  pills, 

And  feeling  pulses  for  a  score  of  ills; 

And  though  no  school  of  medecine  F  ve  been  through 

I  must  deport  myself  as  if  I  knew. 

Tomorrow  I'm  a  lawyer,  lashed  to  fury, 

Defending  innocence  before  a  jury; 

And  I  must  move  my  audience  to  tears, 

Else  that  dread  two  weeks'  notice  surely  nears. 

Now,  I'm  a  beardless  youth,  to  hold  in  sway 

Acres  of  beauty  at  a  matinee; 

With  agony  of  soul  in  sorrow's  cup, 

Because  some  ladylove  has  passed  me  up. 

Next  I'm  a  burglar,  masked,  forbidding,  bad, 

Robbing  a  maid  after  I've  killed  her  dad. 

Then  a  detective,  keen,  alert  and  sly, 

With  icy  mien  and  calculating  eye, 

Foresworn,  however  hard,  to  do  or  die ! 

A  gladiator  now,  of  giant  frame, 

Risking  his  life  for  some  patrician  dame, 

With  shield  and  sword  in  most  inspiring  dash, 

Which  must  be  good,  or — play  all  gone  to  smash. 

Then  must  I  be — O  strange  reverse  of  art! — 

Senility  personified,  whose  flimsy  heart 

Must  crack  and  break,  and  clothe  from  top  to  toe 

A  tottering  frame  in  thrill-inspiring  woe. 

I  cast  my  daughter  out:  ''Hence,  erring  one! 

Into  the  streets,  I  say!"  Then,  when  that's  done, 

Tomorrow  night,  along  the  beaten  track, 

I  play  the  hero  bold  who  brings  her  back. 


[90] 


A  villain  next,  refined  and  debonair, 
Who  drags  the  heroine  by  her  back  hair 
Into  a  wood  where,  silent,  all  serene, 
I  burn  her  to  the  stake  with  kerosene. 
Now  comes  my  turn  at  comics,  full  of  chaff, 
And  all  expedients  that  make  them  laugh. 
I  am  a  Fenian,  weeping  thro'  his  smile, 
Massing  his  clans  to  free  the  Emerald  Isle. 
"  Up,  boys,  and  at  'em !  Down  with  Redcoats 

mean!" 

Pausing,  of  course,  for  "  Wearing  of  the  Green." 
I  am  a  Frenchman,  born  to  taking  ways, 
Thrilling  my  audience  with  La  Marseillaise, 
Or,  with  much  s  avoir f air  e,  earning  my  cash 
By  dashing  deeds,  or  dancing  Les  Apaches. 
A  German  now,  inspiring  laugh  or  pain, 
With  "Hoch  der  Kaiser!  Hoch!  Auf  Wiedersehen! 
In  fact,  I  must  be  any  race  or  tongue, 
Creed,  sect,  or  politics,  or  I  am  stung. 
So  ask  me  not  again,  friend,  who  I  am, 
For  your  opinion  I  care  not  a — cuss; 
Because  I  know,  they  know,  and  they,  and  they, 
That  he  who  makes  to  order  every  day, 
Miser  or  spendthrift,  vassal,  Prince  or  King, 
Old  age,  strong  youth,  banker  or  underling, 
Is  greater  far  than  he  who  never  knew, 
Or  ever  cared,  more  than  one  thing  to  do. 
The  barber  shaves,  the  broker  talks  of  profit, 
Taking  good  care  there's  very  little  of  it. 


[91] 


The  lawyer  pleads,  the  doctor  sometimes  cures, 
But  there's  no  art  or  trade  that  so  ensures 
That  much  in  little  as  the  trade  I  follow. 
Beside  it,  all  the  rest  seem  vain  and  hollow! 
Be  what  you  will,  I'll  be  man's  benefactor, 
Which  is,  in  short,  my  notion  of  an  actor. 


T 


TOLS.H. 

HERE  is  a  sweet  somewhere 

For  such  as  you, 

In  which  all  that  is  fair 


And  womanly  and  true, 
Must  shower  their  blessed  gifts 

Upon  the  strong, 
And  sing  thro'  sorrow's  rifts 
Love's  tireless,  endless  song. 

And  there  will  come  a  time 

Not  far  away, 
When  loving  souls  in  rhyme 

Must  throb  and  beat  alway, 
To  speak  of  gratitude, 

And  to  extol 
That  dominating  good 
Of  sterling  woman's  soul. 

And  there  is  made  a  place 

Where  you  shall  reign; 
Where  there  can  be  no  trace 
Of  sigh,  or  care  or  pain; 

[92] 


And  where  the  days  and  nights 

Of  dreamings  blest, 
Shall  yield  you  those  delights 
That  come  but  to  the  best. 

But  there  will  be  no  friend 

Stauncher  than  I, 
Who  borrows  but  to  lend 

Of  thrills  that  cannot  die. 
And  who,  amidst  the  throng 

Of  spirits  true, 
Must  sing  an  endless  song 
Of  faith  inspired  by  you. 


^i 


I 


THE  COMING  OF  VIRGINIA 

THE  day  that  gave  you  birth 
Brought  an  imperfect  earth 
From  out  its  shadows,  tenantless  till  then, 
A  sweet  prophetic  face 
Destined  to  shine  apace 

Upon  the  souls  of  women  and  of  men. 

The  day  when  you  were  born 

To  woman's  sphere  adorn, 
Came  there  a  wondrous  influence  for  good, 

Which,  as  the  days  sped  on, 

Left  sighs  and  sorrows  gone, 
Beneath  the  magic  spell  of  womanhood. 


[93] 


wr; 


The  day  when  first  you  smiled, 

All  manhood  seemed  beguiled 
With  some  sweet  influence,  to  hold  in  sway 

Souls  born  to  love  of  you, 

And,  whether  false  or  true, 
That  thralling  power  waned  not  nor  passed  away, 

The  day  when  we  two  met, 

Meseemed  I  could  forget 
A  hundred  raptures  won  from  other  girls; 

Then  day-dreams  came  anew, 

And  each  one  visioned  you 
Most  lustrous  of  my  memory's  rarest  pearls. 


AN  ACROSTIC 

EVER  and  ever  may  fortune  attend  you, 
Let  all  the  joys  of  a  lifetime  be  yours. 
In  every  thought  that  may  please  or 

befriend  you, 

Zeal  be  my  guide  with  its  memory's  lures. 
And  in  the  hours  when  my  pen  groweth  lazy, 
Be  sweet  thoughts  of  you  the  ideas  to  inspire. 
Even  the  best  mind  is  oftentimes  hazy, 
Till  someone  like  you  wakes  its  slumbering  fire,- 
How  ever  with  you  for  my  guide  could  I  tire? 


[94] 


LOVE'S  ANGLING 


TWAS  not  in  rippling  crystal  brook 
I  angled; 

Not  in  Diana's  shaded  nook, 
All  verdure  tangled, 

And  yet  my  troutlet  pliant  was  and  rare, 
Eager  to  strike,  and  oh  so  passing  fair! 
All  banged  and  bangled. 

'Twas  not  upon  the  mountain  lake 

I  angled. 
Not  in  my  wherry's  shining  wake 

All  glist'ning  drops  bespangled. 
And  yet  excitement  mounted  just  as  high, 
Wild,. eager  expectation  lit  mine  eye, 

And  every  passion  jangled. 

'Twas  not  upon  the  bounding  sea 

1  sought  her. 
Not  on  the  billow-battered  lea 

I  found  and  fought  her; 
But  when  my  troutlet,  pliant  as  a  willow, 
Lay  calm,  resigned  and  smiling  on  my  pillow, 

I  knew  I'd  caught  her. 

'Twas  in  the  tapestried  boudoir 

I  angled. 
And  I,  as  all  true  lovers  are, 

Was  all  intrigue  entangled. 

[95] 


I 


And  so  I  found  my  queen,  and  cast,  and  caught 

her;— 

And  when  of  blisses  ne'er  to  end  I  taught  her, 
Our  souls  no  longer  wrangled. 

Can  there  be  nobler  pastime  found 

Than  fishing; — 
Than  score  of  troutlets  plump  and  sound 

For  breakfast  dishing? 
Ah,  what  excitement  doth  the  fisher  feel, 
When  anxiously  a'plying  rod 

For  two-pound  grilses  wishing? 

Ah  yes,  there's  fishing  greater  far 

Than  trouting; 
Sport  that  no  wind  nor  rain  can  mar, 

That  scorneth  scoffers'  flouting. 
'Tis  angling  for  the  fair  and  pliant  dove, 
Who  eager  strikes  the  goodly  bait  of  love, 

Resignedly,  undoubting. 


CIRCE 

PARDON  for  hardened  breakers  of  the  laws; 
Pardon  for  those  who  slay  from  feeblest 

cause; 

But  pardon's  not  for  thee  who  blasted  youth, 
Defiled  the  laws  of  Faith  and  murdered  Truth! 


[96] 


CONDOLENCE 

BE  SURE,  dear  friend,  there  is  some 
recompense  — 

Nor  is  it  far  away  —  to  soothe  thy  sorrow. 
For  there  be  those  whose  fond  obedience 

Can  make  this  dark  today  a  brighter  morrow. 

Lone  one,  crushed  as  thy  heart  is,  'tis  not  broken; 

Deep  as  thy  grief  be,  it  can  find  its  end; 
For  there  lies  balm  in  soft  words  aptly  spoken, 

Thrilled  through  the  pitying  loving  of  a  friend. 

Say  that  this  friend,  or  many  friends  that  knew 

him, 

Can  prove  thy  lost  one  happier  in  his  peace; 
How  what  hath  chilled  your  soul,  was  ending  to 

him, 
Of  travail  sore,  that  never  seemed  to  cease. 

Say  that  in  hours  of  solitude,  so  lonely, 

That  it  would  seem  as  though  thy  heart  must 

break, 
These  friends  could  make  you  think  him  sleeping 

only, 
Until  that  day  when  all  the  dead  shall  wake. 

Believe,  dear  friend  of  mine,  religion's  scoffers 
Find  never  aught  that  can  with  sorrow  cope; 

For  nothing  else  that  consolation  offers, 

Can  weave  a  recompense  for  shattered  hope. 


[97] 


>,xx 


1 


And,  little  woman,  some  day  when  your  sighing 

Hath  lulled  a  little,  even  such  as  I 
May  teach  that  after  all  what  seemeth  dying 

Is  but  creating  some  blest  bye  and  bye. 

Some  day — and  come  it  soon — we  two  together 
May  look  from  out  the  shadows  through  the 
past, 

And  find,  as  ships  the  angriest  storms  may  weather, 
That  grief  can  check  its  flood  of  tears  at  last. 

Be  brave,  O  widowed  one!  Take  courage,  knowing 
That  thy  soul's  burden  was  his  peace  and  rest; 

And  find  in  days  to  come  resignment  growing, 
Until  your  heart  shall  learn  'twas  for  the  best. 


DISSATISFACTION 

I  AM  not  satisfied,  O  Love ! 
There  never  comes  a  day 
But  there  are  doubts  I  cannot  prove, 
With  fond  hopes  swept  away. 
But,  in  the  days  to  come,  I  seem 

To  see  portents  of  light 
Which  now  seem  all  a  fitful  dream, 

Cloud-rifts  thro'  envy's  night. 
Bear  with  me  for  that  trust  denied, 
I  am  not  satisfied! 

[98] 


I  am  not  satisfied,  my  dearie; 

There  never  comes  a  night 
Away  from  you  but  I  am  weary 

Of  this  long,  patient  fight 
Betwixt  what  is,  yet  may  not  be, 

What  is  not,  yet  must  rise, 
Or  else  my  soul  were  never  free 

From  jealous  fantasies. 
Bear  with  me  till  Fate  shall  decide, 

I  am  not  satisfied. 

I  am  not  satisfied  with  trust 

That  is  not  sealed  by  truth. 
'Tis  not  enough,  that  dreams  of  lust 

Restored  the  flush  of  youth. 
'Tis  not  enough,  O  girl  of  mine, 

To  hasten  when  I  call; 
For  I  must  weld  that  bond  divine 

Which  makes  you  all  in  all. 
This  cannot  be,  till  you're  my  bride, 

Then  were  I  satisfied. 

ALIBI 

IT  CLEARETH  innocence  and  guilt  alike; 
Its  plaints  equivocal  disarm  divorce; 
It  counters  blows  that  otherwise  would  strike 
At  mortal  sin  to  check  its  baneful  course, 
But  it  must  semblance  bear  of  shining  truth, 
And  this  of  thine  sheds  no  such  light,  forsooth! 

[99] 


THE  SOUTHERN  SENTINEL 

To  the  Southernmost  Redwood  Tree 
in  California 

ENE  guardian  of  thy  kin's  historic  past! 
Staunch  at  thy  post  when  young  Portola  came 
To  solve  the  problem  of  the  darkness  vast, 
Stirred  by  adventure  and  his  country's  fame. 
Time  honors  thee! 

Thou  stoodst  there,  first  of  thy  Southern  horde, 
When  Serra's  legions  of  the  Faith  sped  on 

To  spread  in  Pagan  lands  the  softening  Word 
That  taught  untutored  minds  of  good  undone, 
Truth  honors  thee! 

When  young  Fremont  first  scanned  the  Western 

sea, 
Wert  thou  not  there,  breeze-stirred,  to  proudly 

bow 
Upon  the  chief  that  gave  to  History 

Lores  of  a  land,  the  whole  world's  fairest  now, 
Whose  science  honors  thee  ? 

Hail!  Silent  sentinel,  whose  bond  to  Time 

No  storm,  nor  temblor,  nay,  nor  fire  shall  sever! 

Reign  on  thy  throne  in  dignity  sublime 
Down  thro'  the  ravages  of  Time  forever, 
Whilst  ages  honor  thee! 


TOMMY  QUINN 

Written  in  commemoration  of  Lord  Dunraven's  amazing  withdrawal  from 
the  second  race  with  the  Defender,  because  the  Regatta  Committee  decided 
the  first  race  against  him,  Valkyrie  having  fouled  the  American  boat. 

(Air:  "Baby  Mine.") 

TT    y  ow  unsportsmanlike,  Dunraven, 
Otherwise  Tommy  Quinn, 
Was  Valkyrie's  funk  so  craven, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn ! 

Where's  the  name  they  say  you  won 

As  a  sport  in  races  run  ? 

What  is  this  you've  been  and  done, 
Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 

Was  it  your  idea  of  fun, 

Tommy  Quinn  ? 

Too  polite  to  call  you  foolish. 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
I'm  inclined  to  think  you  mulish, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
For  in  truth  it  seems  to  me, 
That  although  a  Lord  you  be, 
Only  God  can  rule  the  sea, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
And  he  chose  to  make  it  free, 
Tommy  Quinn. 

Did  your  sailors  fear  immersions, 
Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 


[101] 


At  the  hands  of  those  excursions, 
Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn  ? 

Surely  now,  your  mascot  goat 

Could  have  kept  them  all  afloat, 

It's  a  farthing  to  a  groat, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 

That  you  had  the  slower  boat, 
Tommy  Quinn. 

I'm  afraid  the  truth  is  mellow, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
That  you're  not  a  reg'lar  fellow, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
Never  steamboats  half  enough, 
Never  seas  that  were  too  rough, 
Were  you  made  of  proper  stuff, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
What  a  cheap  and  flimsy  bluff, 
Tommy  Quinn ! 

You  may  mail  us  your  excuses, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
You  may  ventilate  abuses, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn. 
You  may  sit  you  down  to  dine, 
Drown  your  woes  in  vintage  wine, 
But  your  star  has  ceased  to  shine, 
Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 
So  you'd  best  take  in  your  sign, 
Tommy  Quinn. 

[  102  ] 


m  M 


From  some  future  Irish  eyrie, 
Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 

You  may  contemplate  Valkyrie, 
Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn; 

But  Defender's  fleecy  ghost, 

Will  be  standing  off  the  coast, 

Giving  Memory  a  toast, 

Tommy  Quinn,  Tommy  Quinn, 

For  she  left  you  at  the  post, 
Tommy  Quinn. 


INVITATION 

SHIPMATES  ahoy!  The  voice  of  Manhood  cries 
For  forbears  of  the  summer's  pleasantries. 
Out  of  the  lumbered  shipyards  flecked  with 

snow, 

Each  mimic  ship  yearns  for  the  soul  that  flies 
From  indolence  to  labor.  And  the  glow 
Of  Springtime's  sun  lures  them  from  winter's  sleep 
Lo!  where  the  frosted  spars  no  longer  weep 
Chill  tears,  thawed  by  the  sun  athwart  the  clouds; 
But  glow  with  warmth  as  sprightly  sailors  creep, 
Cheered  by  the  breeze  of  promise,  up  the  shrouds. 

Captains   ahoy!   Your    summer's    course  is   laid 
Pipe  crews  to  quarters!  Leave  is  overstayed. 


^•^4* 


V*h\(( 


Now  Neptune's  wind-sprites  long  to  thrum  the  tune 
Thro'  lines  and  halliards:  "Joy  too  long  hath 

strayed," 

For  there's  but  chill  beneath  the  winter  moon. 
'Vast  idling  there!  But  ere  the  capstan  sings, 
Gather  we  all  at  winter's  feast,  that  brings 
Brave  hearts  at  rest  together  once  again, 
To  bid  Godspeed  to  winter  taken  wings, 
And  show  that  Friendship's  tongue  speaks  not  in 


vain. 


Landsmen  ahoy!  So  are  ye  welcome  too. 
Our  weathered  mariners  shall  lead  ye  through 
The  maze  of  vapors  shed  from  fragrant  pipes, 
Tempered  by  sparkling  vintage  poured  anew, 
To  pledge  the  yachtsman's  mimic  stars  and  stripes. 
The  place,  the  Astor,  in  whose  banquet  hall 
Song,  speech  and  cheer  shall  lift  the  winter's  pall. 
The  night,  the  twelfth  of  March — no  more  be  told, 
Save  this:  that  revel's  hand  shall  lead  us  all 
From  leaden  hours  to  bright  ones,  cast  in  gold. 


[  104] 


IF  FATE  had  so  decreed  and  I  were  lonely,— 
A  smileless,  cheerless  man, — 
Meseems  that  my  despair  would  seek  thee  only, 
Thou  merry  soul,  Suzanne! 

If  I  were  deep  in  grief  and  bowed  with  sorrow 

That  seemed  an  endless  span, 
I  know  that  I  could  bridge  it  with  a  morrow 

Somewhere  with  thee,  Suzanne. 

And  if  my  life  were  full  of  lovings  broken, 

With  Fancy's  stream  outran, 
I  feel  one  word  of  promise  by  thee  spoken 

Would  breed  new  hope,  Suzanne. 

But,  since  I'm  wed  to  infinite  devotion 

Which  no  new  love  shall  ban, 
I  needs  must  foster  only  friend-emotion 

And  yield  thee  that,  Suzanne. 

Some  day  thy  widowhood  will  seek  its  ending, 

But  where,  O  where  the  man 
Whose  worth  and  ardor  were  not  base  pretending? 

Choose  wisely,  sweet  Suzanne! 


[105] 


THE  BACKBITERS 

AONG  the  drift-ways  of  all  human  things, 
How  often  human  tongues  are  armed  with 
stings 

That  indiscriminately  deal  their  thrusts 
Under  the  spells  of  envy's  biting  lusts! 

How  often,  for  that  one  hath  gained  renown. 
Another  who  hath  failed  would  drag  him  down 
Into  the  mires  where  jealousy  and  spite 
Deny  achievement  its  invested  right! 

How  often  beauty's  reputation's  blot 
When  judged  by  feeble  souls  that  have  it  not, 
And,  that  its  glory  shall  not  hold  its  place, 
Seek  to  enshroud  its  glamours  in  disgrace! 

How  often  friends  are  insincere  with  friends, 
Whose  popularity  to  others  lends 
That  friendship  kin  to  love,  which  should  not  be 
The  victim  of  insidious  jealousy! 

How  often  scandal  spreads  its  ruthless  pall 
O'er  sinless  lives  from  no  just  cause  at  all, 
Save  that  its  monger's  path  itself  is  stained, 
And  so  must  virtue's  bulwark  be  profaned! 

Alas !  that  evil  conquers  over  good, 

So  often  clouding  lustrous  womanhood, 

And  manhood's  best,  when  God  wrought  blessings 

rare, 
For  man  and  woman,  each  an  equal  share. 

[166] 


ng 

(A^XI 
<p'  ~ 

THE  BRIDAL 

G\ZE  in  my  eyes,  my  love,  and  read 
The  story  of  a  soul; 
How  thro'  a  life  of  Fancy's  greed 
Cloud-rifts  of  peace  may  roll, 
And  yet  their  gleams  shot  quickly  past 
Till  you  were  mine  at  last, 
Sweet  one,  my  own  at  last! 

Here  on  my  breast  I  hold  your  face, 

To  dream  a  little  while 
Of  how  it  came  to  find  its  place 

Away  from  sin  and  guile; 
How,  shutting  out  oblivion  vast, 

I  made  you  mine  at  last, 

Dear  love,  my  own  at  last ! 

Here  on  your  lips  I  press  my  own 

To  seal  Love's  endless  bond, 
Then  lead  you  to  that  shining  throne 

That  knows  no  dark  beyond; 
Our  faith  hath  won,  the  die  is  cast, 

You  are  my  own  at  last, 

My  wife,  my  own  at  last! 


[I07] 


Til* 


& 


THE  CONVERT 

BEFORE  no  graven  image  bow!" 
My  childhood's  mentors  gravely  said, 
Yet  told  not  when,  nor  why,  nor  how 
The  living  and  the  hallowed  dead, 
Anointed  there  before  the  Cross,— 
A  holy  sign  that  promise  shed, 
Should  count  the  soul's  infinite  loss, 
Whilst  the  dissenter's  shineless  dross 
To  doubt  and  darkness  led. 

"Before  no  graven  image  bow!" 
And,  as  my  conscience  older  grew, 
I  shunned  those  symbols  hallowed  now, 
Which  youthtime's  teachings  never  knew. 
Thousands  I  saw  before  that  shrine 
Of  graven,  shining,  painted  things, 
Receive  that  miracle  Divine; 
Then  knelt,  as  Faith  began  to  shine 
And  doubt  had  taken  wings. 

Before  those  images  I  bowed, 
Inspiring  symbols  of  a  faith 
That  banished  sin.  Then  prayed  aloud, 
Forswearing  doubt  and  every  wraith 
Of  penitence  forgot.  They  shed 
The  blessed  radiance  of  Truth 
Taught  by  the  Son  of  God,  who  bled 
That  faith  and  reason  might  be  wed 
Unto  my  darkened  youth. 

[log] 


Before  those  images  I  bow 
In  adoration  and  content, 
Still  with  that  sign  upon  my  brow 
That  vanished  disillusionment. 
No  more  does  clouded  retrospect 
Bring  to  my  soul  the  doubts  that  grieve; 
For  now  I  know  that  they  reflect 
The  lessons  that  supplant  neglect 
And  teach  me  to  believe. 


AD  FINEM 

Wtf  EN  life  shall  face  its  end  and 
stands  revealed, 
No  wraith  can  stalk  again  I'd 

have  concealed. 

For  none  left  any  sigh,  cloud  or  regret, 
Nor  retrospect  that  Conscience  would 
forget. 


[  109] 


HERE  ENDETH  THE  BOOK  OF  VERSES  OF 
LOVE,  SENTIMENT  AND  FRIENDSHIP  BY 
MR.  CLAY  M.  GREENE,  AND  PRINTED  BY 
RICARDO  J.  OROZCO,  IN  THE  MONTH  OF 
OCTOBER,  NINETEEN  TWENTY-ONE,  AT 
NUMBER  509  SANSOME  STREET,  IN  THE 
CITY  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO,  CALIFORNIA, 
AFTER  MANY  DAYS  OF  PLEASANT  TOIL 
WHICH  RIPENED  INTO  MUTUAL  ACQUAINT 
ANCE  THAT  SHALL  BE  LONG  REMEMBERED. 
THE  FRONTISPIECE  AND  DECORATIONS 
WERE  DESIGNED  BY  MR.  RAY  F.  COYLE 


O  I 


4G1989 


' 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


